


Careless Love

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [12]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, First Time, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob Typical Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26863702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 12 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE. I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.~~~Some smut before the storm, otherwise known as the requested, "Can't wait for [Harley or Steve or Bucky]'s first time" fic.  So little plot that if you squint, you'll miss it.
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers
Series: Roaring Hot [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 207
Kudos: 296





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts. As always, any remaining errors are all mine.
> 
> Cheer-read by Livvibee, who tells me she loves it too much for me to delete it just when my finger is poised on the DESTROY EVERYTHING button.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse, although it sure SEEMS like everything is getting better, doesn't it?).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

Peter washes his hands and looks up in the mirror. The man who looks back at him grins cockily, looking smug in a set of glad rags, with cheeks that are no longer lean and a face that no longer looks pinched with worry and hunger. There is a bruise, low on his neck, peeking out from the stiff shirt collar as he rinses the rich lather off of his hands. But it’s discreet, no one will notice it, he reassures himself.

And even those that do notice small things like that, most will never suspect how he’d gotten it, he muses, grinning at himself again.

Oh, _Harley_.

~~~

The quiet of Pepper’s parlor is absolute, all-encompassing, and quite a contrast from the plane engines of the day before. Everything about today so far is a contrast from the day before. Peter reaches for another envelope with a sigh, sitting back a little.

“Almost done?” murmurs Happy, sitting in Pepper’s usual spot, looking over household accounts.

“Five- no, six, left,” Peter tells him gratefully, shaking out his hand. “And those’re casual. All the formal’s’re done.”

Happy grunts, peering between two lists. “Good work, kid,” he says.

There’s a knock on the parlor door and then Karen enters with a small tray. “The missus said you needed a cookie break, you two,” she announces cheerfully, crossing over to them. She balances the tray on one hip as she sets a glass of milk and a small plate of sugar cookies on Peter’s desk. When she moves to stand beside Pepper’s desk, Peter spots a small blush that creeps up her neck and cheeks, and it captivates Peter’s attention as he watches it spread to Happy, as well. “Mr. Hogan,” she says, lowly, leaning just a little bit forward.

“Karen,” he replies in a voice that _aches_.

They stand like that, looking at each other, until there’s a crash at the door and they both jump, Karen taking a step and then two back, smoothing her hair and looking at the bookshelves of Pepper’s parlor as if disoriented. Peter grins a little, ducking his head down. 

“Angel!” shouts Harley. “You done yet?”

“Six more, Hellcat,” calls Peter, rolling his eyes, angry at the interruption.

“Well, c’mon,” snaps Harley. “Don’t take _all day_ about it.”

Peter looks over at the door, where Harley slouches, and raises one single eyebrow, sitting back slowly, and picking up a cookie from the plate.

Harley looks back at him, his face darkening.

Peter nibbles the cookie and lets a bright smile slide across his face. “Say, how long did it take you to get yours done after your birthday party?” he asks curiously.

Harley snorts, his foot kicking the carpet in front of him, dropping his eyes. “Just- just don’t take all day, Angel,” he mutters. He’s the perfect picture of the word _dejection_ , Peter thinks, remembering how he’d had to look that one up last week.

Karen sniffs and crosses the room, the tray held out in front of her like a shield. She stops in front of Harley, who glowers at her, and tilts her head. They glare at each other for a moment before she snaps, “Well?” and Harley melts backwards, allowing her through the doorway. 

“Not all day!” calls Harley from outside the parlor, but his voice fades as he says it.

Peter snorts and reaches for his milk.

“You got some plans, Peter?” asks Happy in a distracted tone, reaching for a receipt on the desk.

“Harley’s got some,” chuckles Peter, shaking his head and reaching for another cookie.

Happy hums agreeably, consumed by numbers and budgets and expenditures again.

Peter looks at the six addressed envelopes sitting on the left corner of the school desk and smiles, thinking of Harley still pacing around the mansion, probably driving everybody nuts. 

At least Harley’d remembered Pepper’s declaration of, _No more interruptions, Harley Stark, you stay out of this parlor_ , from earlier that morning. 

He takes out another card, checks the next envelope, and tries to decide what he should write to one Johnny Storm.

_Dear sir,_ he begins in his head, _you keep your filthy mitts off of my brother, and your filthy ideas in your head where they belong with the other horse hockey._

_Dear Mr. Storm,_ he tries _, if you wish to earn future invitations to my presence, you will keep our interactions to well-lit places and your topics of conversation to the weather and our health._

_Dear Johnny_ , slips in _, what did you mean, you been watching? Watching me? Why, Johnny?_

Peter smoothes the page, and writes, 

_Dear sir,_

_Thank you for attending my birthday party. I hope you enjoyed the soothing chill of both the ice cream and the conversation you had with Harley, as you were leaving. I do hope you received all that was coming to you, last night, and best of luck to you, in all of your future endeavors._

_Remember what they say, “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other, gold.”_

_Your new acquaintance,_

_Peter Stark_

Sure. It’ll do. Pepper won’t read it, anyway. He reaches for an envelope, smiling.

Five left.

Time for another cookie.

~~~

“Harley?” calls Peter, knocking on the door to Tony’s study hesitantly. “Harley, are you-?”

“C’mon in, Angel,” Tony says, “He’ll be back soon. Sent him for libations.” 

“Oh,” says Peter, pushing open the door, his heart thumping slightly because he still remembers- _Bucky’s hand, lashing out, his eyes dark and accusing_. He avoids the couch and wanders over to Tony’s desk, instead.

“Well, you’re looking in fine fettle,” chuckles Tony, holding out a hand to draw him closer. Peter smiles shyly and lets himself be pulled in front of Tony, propped on the edge of the desk in front of him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Not even sore,” confesses Peter, a blush rising to his cheeks as Tony’s hands settle on his knees, pushing them apart a little, scooting his chair in.

“Not even a little bit?” chuckles Tony, sliding his hands up and down Peter’s thighs, wrapping them around his hips, looking up at Peter with a delighted smirk.

“Maybe a little bit,” amends Peter, with a smug smile. “Maybe, just enough to know- to remember-”

“Ahhh, Angel,” chuckles Tony, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re a minx, you know that?”

“I am?” asks Peter with a little laugh. _A minx_. _Huh._ It feels _powerful_ , which matches his mood, looking down at Tony, standing there in front of the Sheik in his best suit, on display.

“Yeah, something expensive, and fine,” says Tony lowly, shifting forward in the chair so that he’s between Peter’s knees, now, “something precious, something just a little sweet, learning how to be bold. Someone who knows what he’s worth and holds out for it, don’tcha, Angel?”

Peter breathes in and then tells Tony, “Maybe.”

“No maybe about it, baby,” Tony tells him, wrapping his arms around Peter’s thighs, his hands kneading the flesh of Peter’s backside. “God, I’d fly you to France, you know that? Rent out the Louvre so you could go take a peek at David, get some ideas in your head, look up at me with them big brown eyes and want me to take care of you, right there, curate you like you’re just another piece of art in that gallery.”

The words almost don’t make any sense to Peter, as he stares down into Tony’s intense gaze, shocked and _delighted_. “You’d do that for me?” he asks, lifting one hand, pressing it to Tony’s cheek to watch the man’s eyes flare with want and need.

“I’d do all kinds of things for you, baby,” promises Tony rashly, turning his head to kiss the palm of Peter’s hand, his eyes never leaving Peter’s face.

The door opens, and Peter startles, but Tony just grips harder. “Whaddya want?” Tony growls, his eyes never leaving Peter’s face. “‘M busy.”

“Just me,” laughs Harley, and there’s no sound of the door being shut. Peter looks down at Tony and can see the man’s eyes narrow abruptly with _planning_ and thinking and- and- he kisses Peter’s palm again, a quick twist of his neck, and mutters, “Go _close_ it, Harley.”

“Oh, yeah?” asks Harley, sounding pleased. He deposits two glasses on the desk and must half-run back to the door, to close it, because Peter’s got the heady feeling that not much time has passed before Tony’s hands slide around Peter’s hips and to the buttons on the front of his pants. 

“You wearin’ suspenders?” asks Tony huskily.

“Y-yeah, Tony,” breathes Peter, tossing his head as Tony pops the buttons.

“Shame. You’ll have to lose the coat and vest, then. Next time, baby boy, wear a belt,” growls Tony. 

“What-” begins Harley, sounding a little nervous. Peter’s not nervous. Peter- Peter _wants_.

“Baby brother came in here complaining,” says Tony, “help him with his coat, Hellcat- that he wasn’t _sore_.” 

Well. That’s not accurate, thinks Peter, dazed, as Harley slides his coat off of his shoulders and Tony’s fingers pluck at the buttons of his vest, fast- so fast- quick little efficient snaps of his wrist.

Harley snorts and then chuckles, “You gonna fix that, Boss?”

“No,” says Tony, and the sudden intensity in his gaze, as he leans forward, fingers snapping Peter’s suspenders off as Harley strips off the vest, which makes Peter gasp, “ _you_ are.”

“My lucky day,” breathes Harley. There’s the sound of a glass being lifted, the tinkle of ice, and sure enough, one appears at the corner of Peter’s vision, held out by Harley. Tony slides one hand under Peter’s shirt to toy with a nipple as his other hand reaches for the drink, bringing the glass to his lips for the first long draught. “Ahhh, that’s the stuff,” he sighs, closing his eyes for a single second before opening them, his intensity shivering across Peter’s skin and making Peter pant, already, pant and hitch his hips, to get closer.

“My boys,” he sighs, shaking his head and smiling proudly. “Never thought I’d have a matched set, did I, Hellcat?”

“I found him for you,” Harley reminds him, coming around to sit next to Peter on the desk, leaning in to kiss Peter’s neck and pull at Peter’s tie, tug it loose and nuzzle in, lick at the already-fevered skin there. Peter tilts his head, never taking his eyes off of Tony, to give Harley more access.

“You did, and I knew just what to do with a gem like him,” agrees Tony. “Look at how he shines.”

“Tony,” breathes Peter, his eyes fluttering as Harley sucks, his tongue pressing forcefully into the flesh right there.

“Yes, Angel?” asks Tony innocently.

“Can- can-” pleads Peter, his hips hitching forward.

“Oh, Angel, you need something?” asks Tony, his face a portrait of concern. 

“Yess,” hisses Peter. “Want- need-”

“Baby brother has needs, Harley,” sighs Tony, sitting back just a little, sipping from his glass again. “So do I.”

“Wh-where?” asks Harley, into the skin of Peter’s neck.

“Right here,” growls Tony, flicking Peter’s nipple again. “Bend him over this desk, right here, and see if you can make him a little _sore,_ give him a reason to blush at dinner tonight.”

“Christ, Tony,” gasps Harley, “you sure he’s _ready_ for that?”

“Harley, prepare to be shocked and amazed,” chuckles Tony, with a proud and secretive smile just for Peter. “There’s something your baby brother’s better at than even you, and I didn’t think that was possible, swear it.”

“You-you _said,_ ” mutters Harley, “but I didn’t-“

“You’ll believe it, after you get a taste of it,” declares Tony affectionately, smirking up at Peter, who grins back shyly. “C’mon, Angel, hop down, don’t make your brother wait.”

“Been making me wait all _day_ ,” complains Harley, sitting back. “Aw, shit, sorry, Peter, forgot you got that delicate skin,” he mourns, touching Peter’s neck.

“Yeah, well, you can measure your hands on the paw prints I left on his hips last night,” laughs Tony, pulling Peter down from the desk and twisting him around, running a possessive hand up and down Peter’s back soothingly as he presses Peter down to the desk, face against the paperwork still strewn there. His other hand shoves down Peter’s pants and drawers, to pool at Peter’s ankles.

Peter gasps, because Tony’s never _rough_ with him, not when it’s midnight and he’s whispering _sweet baby boy, who am I?_ against Peter’s skin. It thrills through him, that Tony must be able to manhandle him at any time, and he just- just chooses not to, chooses to be heated and soft, greedy but not grasping. Familiar fingers press at his entrance, as Tony chuckles, “I’ll give him some oil, just a touch, just to ease your way.” He digs in the drawer and sighs, “Got grease. Well, that’ll do. I fuck you dry half the time, Hellcat, and you take it. Besides, little Angel wants to feel _sore_ , this afternoon, and I give my boys what they need, don’t I?”

Peter arches, pressing back on the finger, because it’s so close, so close to where he wants it. 

“Fuck, is he-?“ gasps Harley. Tony chuckles, and another finger presses against Peter’s hole, slipping in easily. Peter’s arms fly up to pillow his head, give him somewhere soft to rock it, and he moans, pressing back as Tony’s fingers begin to wiggle through his flesh, seeking deeper.

“Not sure why your pants are still closed shut, Hellcat,” grunts Tony. “Wasn’t planning on doing all the work, here.”

“God, Tony,” grunts Harley, and there’s the sound of fabric rustling. Peter turns his head and peaks one eye open, to eye Harley’s hands unfastening buttons and drawing himself out, and smiles.

“Fuck, baby brother, don’t you- you can’t just lie there _smiling_ , I’m-” mutters Harley, sounding hot and bothered, and that’s just right. It’s about time Harley felt hot and bothered, Peter thinks mutinously, as Tony’s fingers delve and twist, searching for the spot that-

“Ah!” cries Peter, hands forming fists as the shock of _that spot_ races through his system. “Ah, D-” he gasps, cutting off the word and replacing it with, “-damn, Tony, damn, please, please.”

“Angel swears, now?” says Harley in an awed tone of voice.

“Just for us, just like this,” confirms Tony, sounding smug. “Don’tcha, baby?”

“Y-yes,” hisses Peter. “Oh, _please_ , yes.” The fire is pooling at the base of his spine, and his dick is pressing against the cool wood of the desk, bobbing against it with every press in of Tony’s fingers.

“Awww, poor baby,” teases Harley, trailing a hand down Peter’s back. “Got it bad, needs it so bad, Tony.”

“Don’t I know it,” grunts Tony, his fingers swirling hellfire and hope through Peter’s limbs. “And you’re gonna help him, ain’tcha, son?”

“Yeah, Pops, I can toss one in him for you,” says Harley, aiming for careless, Peter can tell that, but it falls short and sounds breathless, instead.

“Do it,” orders Tony darkly, his fingers slipping out of Peter, slapping Peter on the backside once. “Get in there, give him what he wants. Angel’s gonna get everything he wants, you hear me?” he says lowly. 

“Yeah, Tony,” breathes Harley, the chair creaking as Tony slides it to the right, his leg trapping Peter’s right leg to the desk, his hand slipping under the desktop to tickle and tease at Peter’s cock.

Peter groans, rolling his head on his forearms, and hitching his hips into those gentle, slick fingers, as they pinch and pry at his flesh. “D- damn, Tony,” he gasps, shaking.

“Yeah, baby?” asks Tony innocently, and it’s not fair that he can say it like that, and it sounds so _innocent_ , like just an _endearment_ , and Peter can’t- can’t just spit out what he wants to say, to get back at the Sheik, make the Sheik tremble a little. It _ain’t fair_ , thinks Peter resentfully, so when Harley lines up, his left hand resting on Peter’s left hip a little tentatively, Peter bites his lip and presses back forcefully, impaling himself a little and making both of the other men grunt with shocked desire. Peter grins into his arms as Harley yelps, “Fuck, Angel!”

“‘S what you’re supposed to be doing, yeah,” drawls Tony, and then there’s the sound of a slap, one that makes Harley jump and slide even deeper. Peter groans, as Harley’s cock slips over the _sweetest sinful spot_ , making hellfire speed up and burst across his vision.

Harley gasps, and then says, “Fuck, Tony, he- he-”

“Yeah, I know, all them little flutters and groans, so _fuck_ him, already, son,” grunts Tony.

Harley’s hand grips a little tighter and Peter moans, pressing back into him, and then Harley swears, “Shit, I-”

“Go ahead, he likes it,” laughs Tony. “Told you, he’s like a dame for it, craziest thing. Just fuck into him, son.”

Peter smiles tightly as Harley’s other hand clutches at his hips and he begins to rock, back and forth, dragging his cock against that sweetest spot, deep inside Peter. “Please,” he begs Harley, putting just a little bit of showy thickness into his voice, just a little, not enough to sound false, “c’mon, brother, _fuck me_ , please,” he begs, and sure enough, _both_ men behind him groan. 

He feels _great_ \- the ache really isn’t that bad at all, especially when the reward is tremendous, and this is _fun_ , having them respond like this to him. Tony’s hand on his cock tightens, just a little, like he catches everything about the way Peter’s playing and that- that makes it so much better.

_Minx_ , he thinks with satisfaction. That’s what he’s gonna be. He’s got it all figured out, now. That’s- that’s what Tony wants and Harley, too. He’s gonna be their _minx_.

“Fuck, Tony,” gasps Harley. “I don’t- I don’t think-”

“You come too fast, he’s gonna want more,” teases Tony, and there’s the sound of another slap, making Harley’s hips bolt forward into Peter, both of them groaning. “Little brother’s greedy, Cat.”

“Can feel that,” moans Harley in a ragged tone as Peter whines, “More,” because he knows, now, what that does to Tony, and he suspects-

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Angel,” gasps Harley, slamming his hips inside, now, shoving his cock into Peter, as Peter rises up to meet it on his tiptoes, pressing back into Harley and baring his teeth in a grin or a grimace, even he can’t tell. “Tony, I- I can’t-”

“Go ahead, give it to ‘im,” chuckles Tony, his voice as thick as Harley’s, Peter notes dimly, lost in the sensation of Harley’s cock sliding against that spot, over and over, forcing pleasure up his spine and into his soul. “I’ll finish him off if he needs more.”

“Y-you think?” huffs Harley, “God, Tony, y-you think he-?” 

“Got you all worked up,” chuckles Tony. “All riled up, ain’t he the sweetest ass you ever been in? Tight, pert, and them little flutters, inside, you feel ‘em, Cat?”

“I- I- I-” chants Harley, and then he groans, deep in his throat, and Peter pants, arching back as Harley slams in twice, hard, and his cock jumps inside Peter. He makes little choked noises, and then goes silent.

Harley lets his breath out in a huge puff of air, and then a quiet hiss of air back in, his hands slowly unclenching from Peter’s hips. “Fuck,” he drawls. “Boss, I can’t- I- he’s-”

“I know, took me like that, too,” chuckles Tony, rubbing a hand on Peter’s back until Peter turns his head, eyes a little unfocused, and grins at Tony. “Oh, you stop, you little minx,” he chides Peter playfully. “My turn’s next, and I’ll take care of that sassy smugness, you watch.”

Peter grins back at Tony, elated, his heart hammering and thumping, because this _feels so good_. Here, in Tony’s office, where he’s not usually allowed, where the door’s usually guarded against him, and stuff happens here, stuff Peter wants no part of, but _this_ happens, here, now, too. 

“Fuck, is he still- you still _want more_ , Angel?” asks Harley in disbelief, sliding out with a grunt.

Peter buries his head in his arms and takes a deep breath, calming himself for a single moment, before mumbling, “ _More._ ” His cheeks blaze as he reminds himself he’s just doing what Tony and Harley like, right now. It’s okay, because he’s a minx, now, for them, and so it’s okay to be… be wanton. For them. A little.

It’s just fun, he reminds himself. Like last night, with Tony. Tony and Steve had been all nervous Peter’d get hurt, but he’s- he’s not fragile. He stood up to Barney and he- he’s been slapped by Bucky, and he’s not _fragile_. He can _do_ this, he can _like_ this.

“God _damn_ it,” swears Harley fervently. “Whatcha done to my blushing _angel_ , baby?”

“Oh, he’s just found an appetite, that’s all,” says Tony, standing up. Peter’s heart begins to thump wildly in his chest again as Tony’s hands run up his back, sliding the shirt up and revealing more of Peter’s skin. 

Peter shivers as Harley slides around the desk and pulls a chair up to it, leaning in and gripping Peter’s forearms to hiss, “Y’r the best fuck in town, baby brother, you know that? Better than all the kitties down at Cat Scratch, even, and I didn’t think that was possible, Angel. Had me going off like I was-”

Peter lifts his head to look up at Harley, gasping as Tony uses his hands to pry Peter’s cheeks apart and press his cock to Peter’s hole again. “H-hellcat,” he moans, and watches Harley bite his lower lip, leaning forward in concern. “W-want-” he begs, as Tony slides in smoothly, the stretch of his cock that little bit _more_ than Harley, that little bit _better_ against that sweet spot.

“Oh, you want, baby, you’re gonna get it,” says Harley confidently, lifting out of the chair, now, and putting a hand under Peter’s chin, raising him up to kiss him. He nibbles at Peter’s lips, swallowing Peter’s moans as Tony settles into a fast rhythm, grunting and groaning along with Peter. “That’s the Sheik, there, pumping into you, Angel, and you’re already slick with me, you think we haven’t done that a hundred times? I know, Angel, what it’s like, when a man slides in through another man’s spill, and I can guess-” he nips at Peter’s jawline, to whisper in Peter’s ear, “how it feels, having Tony take his, baby.”

“P-please,” whines Peter, Tony’s fingers digging into his hips and shifting him back up on his tiptoes. “P-please-”

“Oh, baby,” sighs Harley, pulling back just to nibble at Peter’s lips, holding his arms down to the desk in a maddening way. Harley is always doing that, always holding Peter’s arms down, hanging onto them and pressing them, Peter thinks wildly, panting and groaning. “Oh, brother,” sighs Harley, against Peter’s other ear. “You can beg, but Tony’s getting his, and you just put on a helluva show, you know that? Felt his hand playing with you, down there, brushed against it- don’t you know, taking a fucking like you do, what that does to a man like Tony Stark?”

Behind Peter, Tony begins to grind forward, muttering, “Hellcat,” in a warning tone of voice.

“Nah, he wants to be a minx, wants to sass a little, feel high up,” protests Harley, “then he can take a little lesson from his big brother, Boss. ‘Cause, see, Peter, you ain’t the first boy we’ve had between us, and so maybe you don’t know what it does to the Boss, having you slick with me, fucking through my spill to get to his, but I do,” teases Harley. Peter’s cheeks flush, his lips dropping open as he stares up at Harley, mesmerized by the glint in Harley’s eyes. “Sloppy seconds, that’s what they call it in whorehouses, Angel, _sloppy seconds_ , but you know what? They don’t call it that when the Sheik’s in for a visit.”

Tony grunts behind Peter, speeding up, pulling Peter’s hips away from the desk and sliding one hand down to pull on Peter’s cock, rough and powerful, making him gasp and shake and tremble. 

“They don’t call it sloppy seconds, Peter,” teases Harley in a tone designed to send sparks up and down Peter’s spine, his dark intent gaze reminding Peter of midnight and Harley’s fervent, worshipful kisses and hot, filthy words, here in this room built for business of the worst nature, “because no matter how much the first guy spills, the dame never remembers ‘em, Peter. Not once, couldn’t pick ‘em up in a line up of dicks and men. No, when the Sheik strolls, and wants someone who’s wet and willing, and one of us volunteers to make it happen just that way- wet first and willing second, well. First guy’s just the appetizer, Angel, the show before dinner.”

Peter can’t- he thrusts back, and then forward into Tony’s hand, whining a little, because he- it’s- it’s suddenly too much, Tony’s cock shoving in, hitting that sweet spot of sinful sparks, Tony’s hand stroking in its own uncaring rhythm, rubbing furiously over Peter’s taut flesh there, too. He feels full, and tight, and- and-

“No, now, Angel,” chides Harley, capturing Peter’s attention again with a kiss full of teeth and tongue. “Can tell you want to get off, but he won’t care, you know. He’ll just keep fucking, ‘til it’s good enough for him. Seen him fuck- well, doesn’t matter who- ‘til they were sobbing, and he just kept going, Angel, he don’t pull out until _he’s_ through, you know, and you’re here, in his room, on his desk. Door’s locked, Angel, and business’ll wait on the Boss. Whole house’ll wait on Tony Stark, while he gets what he wants from someone wet and willing, and I took care of the wet, didn’t I, baby? Good to see you were made for the _willing_ part, yourself. Knew I picked right. _Knew_ it, even when you didn’t, I did.”

Peter groans, and shuts his eyes, as Tony grunts and begins to hammer into him harder. “Y’r fucking mouth ‘s gonna get you in trouble one day, Hellcat,” grunts Tony. “Can’t wait to be there.”

“It’s gotten me in plenty of trouble,” chuckles Harley, licking his way into Peter’s mouth and swallowing up Peter’s groans and moans as Tony pulls on his cock and pounds at his backside. “And my tongue’s gotten me out of most of it,” he whispers, winking when Peter’s eyes blink open.

That’s- that’s not- Peter struggles to _think_ while Tony slams into that sinful pleasure spot, his hand tugging insistently. “You gonna spill for me, baby,” teases Tony, sounding breathless. The smooth, soft fabric of his pants rubs against the back of Peter’s thighs, and he presses Peter’s legs open further with a careless swipe of his left leg outward, bending Peter back down to the desktop with his own chest. “Huh?” he grunts, kissing Peter’s back. “Wanna race, Angelbaby? I’ll let you win,” he offers, chuckling.

Peter can’t breathe, can’t hold on, can’t control- Harley chuckles and begins kissing his lips, whispering, “Wrecked, baby brother, you were all smug when I got you ready, but you’re wrecked now, ain’tcha, just the way he wants ya. Go ahead, drop some of them crocodile tears, why dont’cha?”

Peter tosses his head, trying to free his arms from Harley’s hold, but Harley chuckles and rubs his cheek against Peter, whispering, “Was fun seeing you let some of that sass out, you feel free, anytime you want, you _are_ a minx, wouldn’t have believed it possible, baby. But now it’s Sheik’s turn, ain’t it? Got you ready and here he is, destroying you, you’re half a wreck already, and he’s just getting winded.”

Peter can feel it begin to shake through him and tosses his head, biting his lip. Tony leans back, though, pressing Peter down with his left forearm while he pulls and tugs on Peter’s pecker with his right, sliding in and out smoothly, a new shock every time forcing air to puff out of Peter’s mouth.

“Aww, you can try to hold out, sure,” mutters Harley, kissing Peter’s cheek. 

“Get yourself ready and I’ll let you go round two,” Tony says suddenly. 

“He can’t-” protests Harley above Peter’s head.

“Bet he can,” challenges Tony. “So get yourself ready, you’re young yet, pecker’s poised to go off like a firecracker every fifteen, I seen you work your way through five girls to Bucky’s two.”

Peter groans as Tony releases his cock to throb and bob in the air. “Besides, he’ll spill on a cock, want you to see it, Cat.”

“He’ll what?” asks Harley, shocked. 

“Yeah, he’s got your trick, but he don’t need- the other-” grunts Tony. “He’ll just _spill_ , Hellcat.”

“Fuck,” breathes Harley. “Yes, yes, I want-”

“Well, I’m about to go off, so get ready,” hisses Tony, and then two hands grip Peter’s hips again, repositioning him to Tony’s satisfaction and giving little finger taps as Tony settles into the deeper angle with a grunt. “Got any words for me, baby?” gasps Tony. “Got you all set up, just the way you like it, Harley’s getting ready for another round. You wanted to be _sore_ , right? Wanted to _feel_ it?”

God, Peter knows exactly what Tony wants him to say. He groans as Tony slides out slowly and slams back in, and then babbles, “Th-thank you, thank you, Boss- thank you- thank you-” feeling heat up his cheeks because this is his game just for Tony, in the middle of the night, and Tony hadn’t ever- not in front of Harley- Tony was _showing it off_ , just now, showing off their-

“Fuck,” whines Harley. “Jesus _fuck_ , Angel. That’s worse than the beggin’ please, Boss!”

“I know,” grunts Tony, in a strained voice. “Baby, you get ready.”

There is no _ready_ , though, for the way Tony grabs and clutches, forcing his way inside, deeper and deeper until Peter can’t breathe, can only wheeze and whimper, until Tony finally groans and his hands release Peter’s hips to tremble at the surface of his skin.

Tony pants for a moment, and Peter can feel his legs trembling against Peter’s. “You ready?” Tony coughs, sliding out and patting Peter’s back.

For a moment, Peter thinks he’s talking to Peter and he _whines_.

“Awww,” teases Harley. “He really gets into it, huh? Poor Angel. Yeah, I can- fuck, you put on a good show, Boss.”

“Well, thanks Harley, but he’s dripping, so get over here,” grunts Tony, hitching himself up to sit on the desk and patting Peter’s back. “You okay, down there?”

Peter shakes his head. _Okay_ was nowhere in the description of this moment. Defiled, maybe, sure. Defiled fits how he’s feeling. Defiled and destroyed and _aching_ tops the lists, and it’s not just his hole, either- his pecker is so full he feels ready to go off at any minute, but they keep _leaving him_ right before he hits that crest he’d found with Tony the night before.

“Yeah, you say no, but your cock’s still dancing to a happy tune,” chuckles Tony, patting his back, his hand pressing down. “Give Harley a minute, ‘s hard to fuck standing up, does a number on the thighs.”

“He’s dripping,” comments Harley, as he slides between the chair and Peter again. His hands reach out to slide the slickness up from Peter’s balls to his hole, and swirl there. Peter moans, as the fingers rub roughly over the puffy flesh. “How much did you dump into him?”

“I don’t measure it,” chuckles Tony, and Peter shakes his head, trying to block out their banter even as it slides a blush up his cheeks. He’s- inside him, there’s- and it hadn’t bothered him at all last night, Tony leaving his spill, but somehow it was- it was _shameful_ , the way they were talking about it, the way Harley was playing with it, wiping it everywhere. “Stop stalling, get inside him.”

Peter squeezes his eyes tight as Harley guides his cock to rest on Peter’s hole and then stops to tease, “Where’s that push back, baby brother? Don’t you want it?”

“Want to _spill_ ,” gasps Peter resentfully.

“Well, well,” teases Harley. “Better jump back, baby, show some spirit, because Tony says you’re coming on my cock or not at all, didn’tcha catch that part?”

Peter grunts and pushes back with a little, “Uhhh,” as Tony runs a soothing hand down his back. “Hurts,” he whines, and Tony clucks his tongue, “Aww, c’mon, Angelbaby, you took me for longer, last night, that second whirl, didn’t I fuck you for a straight hour?”

“An hour?” gasps Harley, his hands gentle on Peter’s hips, so gentle and soft, coaxing Peter to thrust back, to impale himself bit by bit. “Nn, Angel, you feel so _goddamn_ slick- Tony, every fucking time I go in after you-”

“Now you know why I like goin’ after _you_ ,” chuckles Tony, playing with the collar of Peter’s shirt, tugging on it and twisting it between his fingers. “Got yourself some bruises, babyboy. Harley’s a big ol’ meanie, ain’t he?”

“Yesss,” hisses Peter, and shoves back until he’s stretched around Harley, the cloth of Harley’s pants rubbing against his ass.

“Aww, no, Angel, don’t say that,” groans Harley, his hands soothing and gentle as they slide around Peter’s hips. 

“You keep off, Hellcat,” scolds Tony sternly. “I mean it. ‘S my baby, and my desk.”

“D-Tony,” stutteres Peter, flushing, rocking his head on his forearms. “Please, please, Tony.”

“You can do it, you did it just fine last night,” Tony assures him. “So get to work, Harley, he’ll go off for you, too. He’s half-gone as it is.”

“Hurrrts,” whines Peter, as Harley begins to move. It really only _aches_ , at worst, but he wants Tony to take pity, a little, let someone give Peter’s pecker some _attention_.

“Shhhhh,” soothes Harley. “Shhhh, won’t in a minute, just gotta- gotta-” and then he slides over that sweet spot again, and Peter hiccups into his arms, and coughs. “There we go, baby,” croons Harley. “Just like that, huh, baby? Just that angle, huh, your big brother’s got it now, don’t he? I can feel you, you like that, huh?”

Peter feels the heat lick up his body again in waves, and lets loose a sob, because he’s been worked up two times, now, right to the brink, and he needs- he needs so much, so much, but Tony had said-

Tony’s fingers brush the nape of his neck, soft and gentle, as soothing as Harley’s voice and hands, and Tony begins to hum a little tune, as soft and soothing as his fingers gliding on the hot sensitive skin of Peter’s nape. He sips his whiskey and runs a slow hand down Peter’s back, soft and firm and soothing, as Harley works their bodies with a slow, steady rhythm, his dick scraping against that sweet sinful spot on every thrust in, making Peter writhe. 

After several long, slow minutes, Tony begins to croon in a low voice, “Love, oh love, oh careless love,” his hand slipping through Peter’s hair and tugging gently there as he continues, “Night and day I weep and moan.” Peter moans as Harley thrusts forward just a little faster, rocking to a pace that somehow meets Tony’s little song. Tony sings a little louder, “You brought the wrong man into this life of mine,” and then his voice drops as he croons, “For my sins till judgement I'll atone,” softly, as Harley slides back and forth, out and in, and in again, slipping through the mess they’ve made of Peter.

Peter only notices he’s crying when Tony leans down and trails fingers through his tears, lifting the glass to his lips and sipping, making the ice tinkle against the boundary of the cup. “He’s almost there,” Tony says quietly.

“Yeah,” pants Harley, “Damn, what he does to me, Boss. Trying to be gentle-”

“Yeah, best gift you’ve ever brought home,” agrees Tony, and Peter doesn’t bother to bite back the whining sob at those words. “Baby, you remember what you said last night?” he murmurs to Peter.

“N-no, d-Tony,” stutters Peter, blinking.

“You said you needed it harder, you need it harder right now, baby?” asks Tony softly.

“I don’t think I can give it to him harder without-” begins Harley, but Tony snaps, “You’ll give him whatever he needs, he been givin’ both of us what we need this whole time, ain’t he? What do you need, Peter, to spill?”

The hot heat licks up Peter’s legs, which tremble, now, as the whine builds in his throat. Well, he isn’t ucking gonna come apart alone, that’s for sure. “Harder, Harley,” he begs, with a raw voice, teeth clenching. “Can you- I need- Hellcat-”

“Fuck,” breathes Harley, and then he draws back, and presses in quickly, tearing a sob out of Peter, who gathers his wits enough to beg, “Please, please, I need-”

“Fuck him, Harley,” orders Tony, “you heard him, baby boy’s gotta come on you or not at all, and he needs it _harder_ , so _give_ it to him.”

“I-” begins Harley, and then there’s the sound of flesh hitting flesh and Tony growls, “You give him. What he wants. Now.”

“Fuck, Tony, I’ll try,” grunts Harley, and then he draws back and slams into Peter, making him shout, shocked at the way the flames lick up and down his spine, shocked that he can _do_ this, make Harley fall apart, make Tony fall apart, here, in Tony’s study, on _Tony’s desk_. He feels his body ready, tensing and leaping towards release, as Harley thrusts into him almost furiously, gasping and groaning and sounding ready to beg Tony, himself, tortured panting and his fingers so soft, so gentle on Peter’s hips, palming more than clawing.

Tony hums again, and Peter can just picture him, watching them fuck, watching Harley thrust and struggle, watching Peter writhe on the desk, and it’s too much, suddenly, too good, his dick spurting and the whine escaping between his teeth as he spills.

“Fuck,” yelps Harley, and then he groans, too, thrusting a few more times before bracing his hands on the desk and panting, shivering everywhere his body touches Peter’s.

“Real pretty,” Tony informs them, taking another slow sip and putting the whiskey down. “Now button up, Harley, and go get me another glass. Grab something sweet for the Angel, too.”

“Fuck, Tony, a minute,” wheezes Harley.

“Now,” commands Tony, and Harley jerks back, gasping, “Okay, jeez, got it, going. Although _fuck_ , my hand’s’re still shaking too much to pour.”

Peter reels, his head on his hands, tears still leaking out and breath hissing between his lips. Everything in his body _burns_ and _aches._ He’s _dripping_ , their spill leaking out of his ass and along his thigh, his cock drooling the last drops of his own spend.

“Well, go find someone and talk their ear off about it, make _them_ pour, I don’t care,” says Tony irritably. “Just make sure only _you_ comes back in here, and take your time.”

Peter hears Harley’s footsteps carry him over to the door, hears the click of the door opening and shutting, and then Tony’s crooning tone saying, “You able to come back to me, yet, baby?”

Peter mumbles wordlessly, shaking his head against his arms. 

“Well, you look good like this, baby,” says Tony. “You looked good earlier, all shy and proud, but you look good wrecked across all my papers, too, baby. C’mere, let Daddy kiss it better.”

Peter peeks up from his arms and sees Tony’s little smug smirk and feels his own lips stretch into an answering grin. 

“Yeah, c’mere,” says Tony, his grin expanding. “You little minx. ‘Oh, it hurts, Harley,’” he mocks in a falsetto, “when you took it for a straight solid hour last night, baby.”

“It does ache,” Peter informs him hotly, straightening a little, making a face at the wetness leaking down his leg. Tony puts a finger under his chin and raises his whole body up for a devouring kiss. “Yeah, that’s my baby,” Tony whispers into the kiss. “Love, oh careless love,” he whispers, a few minute later. “Damn, baby. Follow you skipping down to hell, you know that? That’s what you do to me.”

Peter’s heart races as he looked into Tony’s dark eyes. “Y-you too,” he tells Tony honestly. “You, too.”

“You’re a mess,” Tony teases. “Look how we dirtied you up, Angel. Them wing’s’re never gonna come clean, now.”

“Don’t need ‘em,” Peter whispers. “Don’t need to fly away.”

Tony smiles at him, soft, and gentle, and slides down from the desk to the chair. “Well, here, come sit on Daddy’s lap and let him show you your empire, son,” he teases, pulling Peter off of the paperwork to reveal a map underneath. “Your brother literally fucked you all over everything the two of you are gonna inherit someday, you know that? We were planning our next expansion. Sometime in the spring, I think.”

Peter eyes the map with interest, noting all the red marked buildings and streets, the gold ones of the Italian allies, the black of Harlem and what must be the rest of Fury’s holdings. “What’s that place, there?” he asks, curiously, at a spot of the map that has hatches drawn across it.

“Oh, Hell’s Kitchen, baby, you stay outta there. Too chaotic even for us. Someday we’ll walk through and burn it all down, start it up again, but you need allies to hold ground, and there’s no one there holding ground at all, from what any of my goons can see,” says Tony seriously. “So you just stay out of there, you hear me? That’s not for angels.”

“Okay,” promises Peter easily, shifting on Tony’s lap. “So, where are you expanding?”

The door opens and Harley slides in with a tray, stopping in shock and looking at them, his jaw dropping for a moment before he shakes himself and closes the door with a kick. “You two are impossible, Peter, you takin’ him again?” he asks.

Peter laughs, and wiggles in Tony’s lap. “Maybe in a bit,” he murmurs slyly, which makes Tony hoot and throw his arms around Peter’s waist and Harley snort.

“Unbelievable,” Harley tells them, setting the tray down.

“Best gift I’ve ever gotten,” Tony declares.

“Did you take off his pants?” asks Harley, affronted. “Tony-”

“‘S my boy. He won’t need ‘em just for us,” laughs Tony, lifting his glass.

Harley chuckles and shakes his head, and Peter feels a glow, deep in his chest, as Harley’s eyes twinkle at him and Tony’s arms wrap around him.

“Unbelievable,” mutters Harley again.

~~~

“Unbelievable,” whispers Peter to the mirror, touching the bruises at his neck and shifting in the dinner suit he’ll wear down to the dining hall. His backside aches, that’s for sure, but he doesn’t- if Tony were to slip in at midnight and want _more_ \- Peter glances up at the mirror and admits to the red-cheeked young minx smiling at him in a whisper, “You’d let him. You’d _beg.”_

“Hey, Angel, you seen my blue suede shoes?” shouts Harley.

“Yeah, under the couch,” Peter calls back. Then he pauses, heart hammering, and turns. “Hey, you’re not wearing-“

“Thanks!” shouts Harley, sounding smug. “And yeah, Angel, after what you gave me today? I’m gonna wear your favorite suit for a week straight, see if I can get you to give me more, when we come home.”

Peter’s breath catches as he enters their bedroom, eyes traveling up and down Harley’s trim form in the deep blue trousers and tight matching vest covered in red embroidery. “Hellcat,” he murmurs, “looking like that, what makes you think you’re _leaving_?”

Harley’s lips part for a single second, his attention arrested, his body stilled, before he grins. “Well, I gotta make you need me, don’t I, wifey? Make ya miss me, just a little, so I can get that sweet homecoming?”

“Stay tonight,” breathes Peter, feeling that power flow through his body again. “Stay, Harley.”

Harley flinches like he’s been hit, eyes darting from Peter’s face to various corners of the room, trapped. Peter steps forward, pressing in, fascinated. “Stay, Harley,” he says softly, and watches as Harley’s breathing goes a little frantic.

“Maybe,” stammers Harley, and Peter floats closer yet, reaching out to touch Harley’s chest with a calm hand, so _sure_ , so _confident_ , that he can make Harley promise him this. “Maybe,” repeats Harley, in a higher pitch.

“Mm, say yes, though,” teases Peter, tilting his head to one side and looking up through his lashes at Harley. “Say yes, please, Harley, stay with me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

There’s a laugh from the corner of the room and Harley flinches back, gasping, but Peter turns his head to look at Tony slowly, mind calculating what Harley’s reaction must mean.

“You little minx,” declares Tony proudly, a huge grin cracking his face, “are you trying to steal my best lieutenant from me, tonight?”

Peter grins at him and declares, “Trying, anyway, Tony.”

“Well, you can have him,” laughs Tony, crooking his finger at Peter in a gesture that has Peter flying across the room to him as he continues,”on one condition.”

Peter laughs and says, “What, Tony?”

“Me second,” growls Tony, pulling Peter to him for a kiss.

“Oh, good,” gasps Peter. “I was hopin’ I’d get everything I wanted.”

Tony chuckles and Harley mutters, “Unbelievable!” one last time.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter woke with a startle, as the bed shook. “Up, up, Harley, we gotta go,” growled Bucky. “Grab whatever clothes you can find, Devil’s riding at dawn today.”

“Wha-?” grunted Harley, shaking himself awake and pulling back from where he was plastered against Peter with a groan. 

Peter winced as they unstuck and then flushed a little at the stickiness that was left behind. Harley hadn’t been able to keep his hands off Peter all night, they’d _gone rounds_ as Harley put it, and the evidence was all over Peter’s body. He couldn’t see the clock from where he was tucked almost against the wall on the bottom bunk, with Harley obscuring him, but it was still dark. Early, then. _Very_ early.

“You’re staying put, Angel,” growled Bucky, fiddling with the curtains. “Go back to sleep.”

“What?” asked Peter, rolling over as Harley spun around awkwardly on the bottom bunk. “Bucky, I-”

“Shut it,” grunted Bucky with an angry glare that made Peter shrink back, Bucky’s hand clenching on the curtains and drawing his gaze. Bucky’s hand unclenched slowly, as if it took control, and the thought of what would make _Bucky_ tense enough to show it made Peter’s breath come faster. The man’s eyes narrowed at Peter as he growled, “C’mon, Hellcat, up, let’s go, shake a leg.”

“I’m moving, I’m rolling, just, Christ, let a man get a lungful of air,” whined Harley, clambering awkwardly off of the bunk and racing to the dresser, shaking his head as if to clear it. Peter watched him with concern before flickering his gaze to Bucky. 

“Bucky,” he tried, gently, and felt his anxiety ramp up when Bucky’s lip peeled off of his lips.

“No, Angel,” muttered Bucky. “Now stop it. Devil’s business. Your feathers might be a little dirtied but you still got ‘em, and you’re gonna keep ‘em. So stop.”

Harley leaned in, fingers flying at his shirt front, suspenders hanging from his hips, and jerked his chin upward. Peter flowed with the motion, rising for Harley, and Harley bent, giving him a deep kiss as Harley’s fingers continued to button his shirt, tucking the shirt in and sliding the suspenders up. 

“Ahhhhh,” Harley sighed with satisfaction, straightening, leaving Peter leaned forward and panting up at him. “That’s the stuff. Okay, ready for my day. You take a bath, baby,” he ordered Peter mock-sternly. “Got you seven kinds of sin leaking out of you, want you fresh for when we get home.”

Peter flushed, squirming as much at the _baby_ as the order. 

Bucky snorted and said, “Nice talk. _If_ we get home, you can give him a bath yourself.”

Peter’s blood ran cold. _If- if- if- what? What?_ Was Bucky really spooked, or just- just teasing, just-

“Nothing doing,” said Harley hotly, shaking his head, his eyes hot on Peter’s face, and smirking. Peter took a low breath. If Harley was smirking, maybe- maybe Peter didn’t have anything to worry about. Harley winked at him, settling his heart even further, and then turned to Bucky to say hotly, “Whatever hot water’s making your kettle sing, I ain’t worried about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, you tell it to the other guys,” muttered Bucky, his eyes meeting Peter’s briefly with a single flash of good humor, of interest, that made Peter acutely aware of his bare skin on full display, the sheets gathered around his waist in soft waves. “You mind if I-”

“Aww, go ahead, Wolf, gotta find my shoes anyway,” said Harley, shrugging, tossing Peter a quick smile before trotting to the closet. “He’ll like it, he’s good at kissin’ a man goodbye in a way that makes you want to be the first one to come home at night.”

Peter stared up at Bucky before swallowing and pressing down his anxiety to smile at the man. He was a minx now. He was Tony’s minx.

“Lookit you,” crooned Bucky, his grin crooked and sly, as he crouched down on his heels in front of Peter. “You’d never know we dragged you up out of a back alley fleabitten dump, wouldja? Looking like you’re shootin’ on the eights, now, Angel, just like I said you would be. Learn how to think of England for Hellcat and the Boss, didja?”

Peter flushed, and licked his lips, reminding himself, _minx_ , and then murmured, as smoothly as he could, “Don’t need to think of England, Wolf. Just need to think about my man.”

Bucky grunted, like the words hit some spot deep inside him, and Peter felt his heart thrill to that noise. He wanted to make the man do it again- and again. “Well, you and me, we’ll talk, when we get back,” he said darkly.

Peter swallowed as the man turned to watch Harley over his shoulder, the memory of an aching cheek and Bucky’s apology ringing in his ears. He shook it away, and tried to ready a suave smile for Bucky, telling himself firmly, _Minx_. Somehow the word didn’t have the same magic, looking at Bucky’s impatient fingers tapping on the brass frame of the bed. With Tony- with Harley- it flooded him with power and with a feeling of shamelessness. Trying it on in front of Bucky, it felt like new shoes that didn’t fit right- it pinched and rubbed him.

“Kiss him already,” complained Harley, stomping back over to them sliding cufflinks into his shirtsleeves. “C’mon, Jimmyboy, you’re the one in an all-fire hurry, kiss him.”

“Yeah,” whispered Peter, looking up as Bucky’s flashing eyes returned to him, telling himself _Minx, dammit,_ “Kiss me, Wolf.”

Bucky smiled, a tight, tense thing, and slid his hand into Peter’s hair, gripping tight. He drew Peter half-off the bed for a powerful kiss that had Harley whistling in the background. At the end of it, Peter’s eyelids were half closed and his lips stayed parted as Bucky pulled himself back, his familiar smirk sliding back across his face. Peter’s heart beat once, grateful for that small sign of normality.

“Yeah, little angel boy, I knew it,” crooned Bucky, and that was much more normal, too, and _right_ , Bucky teasing him with those flashing blue eyes. “You be good, now. Don’t give Steve and Happy too much trouble, you hear me?”

“No, sir,” promised Peter earnestly, watching the man stand to push Harley roughly in front of him, Harley grinning at Peter and giving one last little wave.

The door shut behind them gently, a near-silent _click_ of sound as the latch caught.

Peter stared at it, and tried desperately hard not to think of where they were going and what they were going to do and if- if- _when_ they’d be back.

A bath.

Yes.

That’s what he needed.

A bath.

And then he’d go find Steve, so he wouldn’t have to wait alone.

~~~

The whole Devilside of the family was gone, but Pepper reigned supremely calm and collected over breakfast in her parlor, smiling up with twinkling eyes at Peter. “Well, hello, prodigal,” she said, her voice sounding almost fake with merriment. “I’ve missed you this past week, come snug in next to me.” She patted the deep pink cushion of the couch beside her with a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Happy smiled at Peter too, leaning back in the desk chair, shimmying it from side to side before levering himself up from it and ambling over to the sitting area. “Oh good, now that he’s here, Steve, bar the door behind you, don’t let him escape. I’ve got paperwork that’s been waiting on him to step foot in this room all week.”

Peter flushed as he sank down next to Pepper, and Pepper wrapped an arm around him. “Nix,” she said, the word sounding strange in her prim and proper mouth. Peter’d had about enough of _strange_ and _different_ as he could handle already this morning, and it set him on edge again. “He’s been enjoying his birthday and taking a break. We worked him hard all of August, didn’t we, son?”

Peter shifted just a little closer to Pepper’s warmth, feeling a lick of shame for his abandoned duties creep down his spine even though Happy’s glaring frown was clearly playful. “No- I- I can look at accounts? Or contracts? What- what do you need, Happy?” he asked. Anything to help pass the time today, actually. Anything to help keep his mind off of Bucky’s grunted _if_.

“Happy doesn’t need anything, Peter,” said Steve slowly and decisively, making a cup of coffee with slow, unhurried gestures. “He’s teasing. You’ve been fine. You deserved a little break. You’ll pick back up again soon enough.”

Pepper’s arm squeezed around Peter’s torso again, until he looked up into her tilted face. Her smile was just a little tight, her eyes just a little drawn and tense, he could see it- and he could also see how they were still warm for him, still loving, as she said firmly, “You’re very fine, Peter. We didn’t hire you on to work, we took you in as a member of our family. Kindly apply yourself to remembering that fact, despite Happy’s slavedriver ways.” 

Peter flushed again as Steve handed over the mug of coffee, taking a slow sip.

Happy chuckled. “No, no, Mrs. Stark, you got it all wrong, let him dangle a bit, let me crack my whip. Might as well have one soul around here who cares about the details.” 

Peter choked on his next sip of coffee as Pepper tutted into her own tea, shaking her head. “Happy, he’s a woolgatherer. He’ll be frantic enough all day as it is- don’t add to it.”

Happy sighed as if deeply disappointed and shook a finger at Peter severely, saying shortly, “Look, kid, if I needed you, I knew where to find you. You got it?”

Peter nodded gratefully, feeling the guilt slide away to be replaced with the worry again- what had Bucky meant, _if_ the Devilside returned? 

He shifted and took the pastry Pepper held out to him, biting into the flaky crust and closing his eyes.

“Yes, it’s good, Cooky Betty brought her German grandmother over yesterday to try out some new recipes,” said Pepper, sounding pleased. “I may have to stretch the kitchen accounts to cover Grandma Ida as a part-time pastry boss, once a week.”

“Please,” said Peter thickly, his eyes crossing at the bursts of buttery, flaky flavor mixed with tart raspberry filling.

“Yeah, _please_ ,” agreed Happy, helping himself to what was clearly a second or third serving.

“So ‘s this- what we do?” asked Peter into the companionable silence that fell, his nerves buzzing, needing- needing someone to acknowledge that this morning _wasn’t_ like every other morning. Everyone was so _calm_ , but there were little signs of tension, he could feel it from everyone but Steve.

“You have some other plan for passing the time today, Angel?” countered Steve, eyebrows flying.

“No- just- seems like there should be something we should do?” offered Peter.

“Yeah, there is something you can do- check that contract,” chuckled Happy. “I got all excited thinking I could hand some work over to someone I thought I could trust to actually do it, and then _wham_ you go and become an adult and-”

“Enough,” said Pepper, overriding him and tugging Peter closer, protectively. “He’s a worrier, Happy. He’s going to take you far too seriously. He doesn’t need to feel he’s let anyone down on top of the rest of- of today,” she finished, so clearly shying from whatever she had been about to say that it made Peter’s throat burn.

“Have another one,” suggested Steve bracingly to both of them. Peter contemplated licking his fingers, taking a huge draught of coffee from his other hand as Steve pressed a pastry on Pepper. He handed a sticky pastry to Peter with a grin that did nothing to actually disguise the concern in his eyes. “Hard to mind the home front, but they don’t usually work daylight hours, so it won’t happen often, Angel. Most of the time, you’n’me’ll be sleeping the sleep of the innocent, meek, and mild.”

Steve contemplated his own sticky bun as if it was a fortress he was planning to attack, and took a bite, chewing with dogged enthusiasm as if the sweet treat was tough jerky that had to be eaten for the long trek ahead.

Peter swallowed sweet sticky crust and chased it with coffee made just the way Harley loved it, sympathising. He nodded at Steve solemnly when the man looked up at him, eyes rueful and tense, before flicking to Pepper and mellowing with real warmth.

 _Hard to mind the home front_.

Yeah.

This part of being the Stark’s Angel was turning out to be as awful as dealing with Bucky and Harley’s tempers, _combined_. At least those scenes had been over quickly. He’d almost rather somebody’d slap him or throw his things out a window, than this creeping crawling dread and anxiety, buried deep in the pit of his stomach, and nothing but polite exchanges, warm words of substanceless comfort, and sticky sweets above it.

And they’d have to keep it up- all morning- he realized, swallowing more coffee. Have to pretend everything was fine and okay and normal, _all morning_.

 _Come home soon_ , he thought at Tony, at Harley, at Bucky. _Finish up and come home soon._

~~~

They weren’t back by lunch, or by the afternoon.

They missed the simple supper Pepper ordered for dinner- and the quiet conversation in Pepper’s room afterwards.

It was, in fact, late at night, when the sound of stumbling footsteps and laughter announced the Devilside’s return to the mansion.

“Where’s m’brother?” hooted Harley, the door to Pepper’s room opening abruptly, laughter and jeers filling the quiet space and startling all four waiting souls.

“Toldja they’d b’waiting,” announced Tony, face ruddy red as he approached Pepper and slid to his knees, tilting his face upwards. “Who’s th’best gal? In all the world? M’wife, tha’s who,” he announced thickly, grinning up at her.

Pepper put her hands on either side of his face so gently and fondly that Peter swallowed, watching her expression go incandescent with delight in a smile that rivaled Tony’s happy, drunken grin. She’d said she wasn’t worried, all day long, so serene, so calm. But that level of relief didn’t come from certainty- it couldn’t. “I should say so, Mr. Stark,” she responded pertly, arching one perfectly-formed eyebrow.

“Didja miss me, Mrs. Stark?” he asked her eagerly, as the room seemed to fill with people, all moving with various levels of clumsy excitement.

“Always,” she breathed, and kissed him, to Harley’s hoot.

“Where’s the Doc?” asked Steve shortly, in a low aside to Bucky.

“Went on- took Hawk with him,” said Bucky, his grim voice sounding out of place under the merriment of Harley and Tony. 

Harley ambled up and grabbed Peter from behind, placing a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Heya, kid, how’s tricks at the home plate?”

“Get off,” grumbled Peter, pushing him off. “Are you drunk?”

“As a lord,” laughed Tony, climbing his way onto the seat beside Pepper. “Little Lord Harley, of the New York Starks.”

“As if you were entirely temperate yourself, good husband,” laughed Pepper fondly, tapping Tony’s nose, a move that made him capture her hand by the wrist and press kisses to each fingertip. 

“I’ll show you temperate,” Tony threatened darkly, as Pepper’s face flushed, her eyes shifting around the room. “Go away,” he added firmly, eyes boring into hers in a way that made Peter’s clothing feel too tight. “I want my wife. Been a long, hard chase.”

“C’mon, Hellcat,” sighed Steve, standing and grabbing Harley by an arm as the man yelped. “Tasha, a hand?”

“Yes, Steve,” agreed Natasha, taking Harley’s other elbow. “Night, Boss,” she added calmly.

“Night, Tasha, son, Steve,” recited Tony, his eyes never lifting from Pepper’s, her own gazing back at his, cheeks pinked prettily and lips beginning to curve.

Peter tore his gaze away as Harley yelped again at the bathroom door, protesting, “I can take a hint! I can walk!”

“Prove it,” huffed Steve, and Peter shook his head as Harley stumbled the moment he was released.

“Peter, with me,” said Bucky shortly. “Night, Boss, Pep.”

“Best of dreams,” murmured Pepper, holding up a hand to Peter as he passed behind her couch. He took it, and she kissed it, turning her head to look up at him before releasing it. “Sleep well, Peter. You did well, today.” Her smile at him had a wry twist and just a hint of exhaustion at the edges. She _had_ been worried, then. She _had_. He took a deeper breath and nodded back at her, giving her a wry smile of his own. Well. So had he.

“Good boy,” said Tony from his knees, and Peter shifted his gaze, feeling uncomfortable looking at Tony there, on his knees like that. Tony winked up at him and recaptured Pepper’s hand, pressing light kisses to the surface in fast lines. “Now go with the babysitter, _scram_ , son. Daddy’s gotta check some things off Mama’s honey-do list after leaving her bed at dawn.”

Peter swallowed, pushing down the images those words conjured.

“Oh, Tony,” sighed Pepper, shaking her head. “Good night, Peter,” she said firmly. “Bucky, thank you for bringing Mr. Stark back to me.”

“Always do,” grunted Bucky. “Always will.”

“Yes,” agreed Pepper, one hand rising again to caress Tony’s cheek. “I do depend on it.”

Peter let Bucky draw him away, his last glimpse of the couple Pepper tilting Tony’s face up to look at her, his eyes blazing with emotions Peter couldn’t identify or name, Peter’s heart beating faster and faster until Bucky hid the vision with a quiet tug on the door to close it tightly.

~~~

“You take that bath, kid?” grunted Bucky, slapping open the door to the room he shared with Steve.

“Yes,” said Peter simply, feeling his stomach flutter with sudden nerves as Bucky whirled and looked down at him with narrowed eyes. The man was full to the brim with tension. Peter could feel it spill over into his own body, tightening a stomach that had been upset since breakfast. 

“You wash _everywhere_ , little Angel?” asked Bucky, in a voice gone just a hint husky, his eyes searching Peter’s face for something- maybe a hint that Peter was lying? Why would Peter lie about that? What was Bucky-

 _Stark’s Wolf can smell a lie a mile away_ , interrupted an old story he’d heard selling papers on the streets. _He’ll snap and snarl at an honest Joe, but he’ll eat the sneak, every time._

Why did Peter remember that rumor, now? He didn’t have any intention of lying to Bucky, what did it matter, what people said about him? Peter felt his breath clutch in his chest as he stammered, “N-no, sir.”

“Give yourself a shave?” murmured Bucky, a calloused hand coming up as if to test the roughness of Peter’s chin. “Sure did.”

“Not- not everywhere,” breathed Peter, blinking up at him. Why had he said that? What _possessed_ him to offer the man that information? His stomach twisted, again, spreading chills.

“Saved some for me. Good,” grunted Bucky, his smile tight, but true, enough for Peter to feel a trickle of relief flow through his body. 

And then he pulled Peter to him with a heavy arm, tilted his own head, and pressed their lips together.

Peter breathed, somehow shocked, _shocked_ despite- he knew Bucky wanted- Bucky liked- he- he’d kissed Bucky, before, lots of times- they’d- but he’d _forgotten_. Bucky’s lips were firm and strong on his own, and he’d forgotten what it was like, kissing the Wolf of Manhattan. He didn’t part Peter’s lips with an eager tongue like Harley, or possess Peter’s mouth like Tony. He didn’t mold his mouth to Peter’s, a perfect fit every time- he didn’t- he was simply _Bucky_ , savagery under the surface and nothing but cool competence and hunger where his skin grazed Peter’s. 

“Bathtime, Angel,” Bucky murmured after a dizzyingly long minute. His strong arms lifted Peter straight up as if Peter weighed nothing. He didn’t even grunt as Peter’s weight settled around his waist, Peter clutching at his shoulders awkwardly. His bright eyes glinted in the dim gaslights as he continued to watch Peter, and Peter tensed with the sensation of exposure. _Stark’s Wolf can hear you breathe louder than you can hear yourself_ , went the scare stories, effective because there was no other way the man had racked up all the kills attributed to him, unharmed and uncaught, unnoticed and unpunished.

“Yes, Bucky,” whispered Peter to the man who stared at him, who held him in strong arms as if he was nothing more than a bundle of rags. Bucky stalked them through his room with heavy strides, shouldering into the bathroom and dropping Peter lightly into the chair underneath the window. 

“Strip,” demanded Bucky, turning away to get the bathwater started as if he knew his order would be followed.

It would be. Peter wasn’t an idiot, he knew the old stories, all of them- and he knew, too, that the tales of the man’s impatience, his savagery, must be true, as well. He’d felt Bucky’s hand against his cheek once before, when the man had been equally wound tight, equally curt. _Stark’s Wolf has such a bite on him_ , the old men telling tales on the front stoops of the tightly-packed tenement houses would say, touching a finger to their noses and nodding their heads. _Such a bite, and so fast you’ll never see it comin’. One growl, and bam!- you’re a goner, getting all stretched out for your last Sunday suit._

Peter’s hands flew to the vest buttons of his brand new suit- better than anything he’d ever worn on any Sunday when he’d been nothing but a Parker- quickly undoing them and sliding the vest down his arms. He watched Bucky glare at the rising water and shrug out of his own coat, tossing it into the corner. Peter folded his unwrinkled vest over the back of the chair and began on the shirtfront buttons, pausing to slide off the cufflinks to drop them on the windowsill behind him.

He watched Bucky’s back as the man tugged off his own vest, tossing it onto the pile. The bodyguard seemed tenser, Peter thought. He was always watchful, always ready, a snake before the strike, a lion in the grass. But tonight there was an _explosiveness_ about him- the way he’d lifted Peter, earlier, the casual way he’d dropped him into the chair. The kiss, chaste in comparison to Harley’s kisses, to Tony’s, and yet- and yet-

Bucky didn’t so much unbutton his shirt as rip it off, and Peter shouldered out of his own as he watched, mouth going dry and throat working with fear and longing both as the man’s muscles bunched and shifted, on display as he lifted the cotton undershirt over his head. Bucky was nothing but hard planes and sharp lines, power coiled and ready to spring forward at any moment. His movements were sharp and irritated, as he tossed his clothes into the corner, kicked out of his shoes and slid the pants off, began to rip at his garters.

Peter moved his fingers quickly on the fasteners of his own clothing, popping buttons with that quick flick of his wrist that he’d learned by studying Tony. He concentrated on silence and efficiency, and breathing shallowly as he watched Bucky, grateful he’d taken off his garters and hose with the shoes after dinner.

Bucky growled as his right garter fought back, the sound low and dangerous in the small enclosed space of the bathroom. Peter shivered in his drawers, hesitating only a moment before diving across the tile floor to drop to his knees at Bucky’s side. “Let me,” he breathed, as the man tensed beside him, leaning away. Bucky didn’t need another irritation, not tonight, not when Peter was clearly- clearly going to be here, for a time. Naked. With him. Bucky didn’t need to have something so minor as a damn buckle pissing him off more. Not when Peter could do something about it, anyway. Peter’s hands flew, taking Bucky’s continued silence for permission, tugging at the leather and the small clasp, smelling the faint muskiness of the other man’s sweat, with his head so close to the man’s body. 

Fingers touched his hair, startling him for a moment before he worked the clasp free with a puff of satisfaction. “Got it,” he murmured quietly, sliding the sock down and then off, as Bucky lifted his foot. He knelt, holding the sock and the garter awkwardly, unwilling to just- just toss it in a corner. His own neatly folded clothes mocked him from the chair.

“Toss it, kid,” ordered Bucky, his voice gruff although his fingers wound through the strands of Peter’s hair as gently as a soft breeze. “Toss it, and get up here.”

Peter swallowed, and tilted his face up, to look at the man standing beside him. Bucky’s watchful eyes and thunderous expression looked back, his sharp blue eyes narrowed with something that could be anger or could be- could be something else. Peter tossed the clothes on the pile in the corner and stood, quickly, as gracefully as he could, feeling dizzy. “Yes, Bucky,” he whispered, finding it just as necessary to tilt his head standing. The man was just so _big_ , in contrast, this close. So big and so tall and so- so _much_.

“Yes, Bucky,” repeated Bucky quietly, in a voice that didn’t sound mocking, but _had_ to be, didn’t it? Didn’t the man _have_ to be mocking Peter, for his hesitancy, his fear? “Get in the tub,” he ordered gruffly.

Peter couldn’t help it, he shivered, looking up into those piercing blue eyes, and murmured, “Yes, Bucky,” again.

“Yes, Bucky,” repeated Bucky, but it didn’t sound mocking. It didn’t _sound_ like anything in particular, in fact. Peter couldn’t figure out why Bucky repeated him, as he dropped his drawers quickly and climbed into the tub, awkward, sinking below the hot water with a slight hiss at the way it shocked his skin. 

“Move,” said Bucky, and Peter shifted to the other side of the tub, feeling the water lap at his midsection. Bucky dropped his drawers as quickly as Peter had, shedding them as if they were an annoyance, and jumped over the side nimbly, sliding smoothly under the water. He gave a little hissing breath as if in acknowledgement of the heat of the water, and then a quick little noise of pleasure, too low and smooth to be a grunt, too short to be a moan. Peter’s mouth went dry as Bucky reached over the edge of the tub for the ewer, his muscles rippling with the motion. Surrounded by all that water, Peter was suddenly so damn thirsty for something to _drink_.

Bucky quirked a grin at him, as if he could guess his effect on Peter, and dipped the ewer into the bathwater, pouring the hot water first over his own shoulders in quick floods that left rivulets streaming, and then shifting to pour it much more slowly over Peter’s torso, the sheer heat making Peter grit his teeth in a grimace. 

“Too hot, Angel?” asked Bucky lowly. Peter shook his head, the water lapping at his skin mocking the edge of his tolerance. But he’d told Bucky he wanted to learn how to be just a little bit of a wolf, himself- just a little bit more sharp and strong, and he’d meant it. He could take a little heat, could teach himself to relax into it, the way Bucky clearly did.

“You think you can handle it?” asked Bucky, his voice holding just a tinge of mockery, of tease- enough that Peter’s head snapped up to look at him warily.

Bucky grinned at him slowly, the expression sliding across his face like the sun slipping between clouds during a storm. “You think you can handle _me_ , Angel?” he asked with more heat, more gravel in his voice.

Peter considered him, heart beginning to race just a little bit as he realized that the man didn’t think he would say _yes_. He clenched his jaw and dropped his eyes to the ewer in Bucky’s hands, hoping his intent was clear because if he had to use his words, he knew they’d squeak out of his tight throat and ruin the effect he was trying to achieve. After a long moment, Bucky lifted the ewer up between them, tilting it to pour a small stream of water into the center of the tub, a challenge. Peter took a deep breath and then dipped his head down and under the hot stream of water, keeping it there until the stream became a trickle before tossing his head and looking up at the man through dripping eyelashes. “Gonna try,” he told the man, honestly.

“Fuck, Angel,” growled Bucky, surging forward, his hands cupping the back of Peter’s skull and holding him at just the right angle for another firm kiss. Their legs crashed together under the water and then Peter slid his up and over Bucky’s, slotting into place on the man’s lap, grateful for the way it lifted him out of the water, the contrasting cool of the air soothing his tingling skin. 

“You can’t,” panted Bucky, pushing Peter back, back to rest on Bucky’s outstretched knees, his hands gripping the tub’s rim so tightly the bones appeared white in the flickering gas lights. “You can’t, Angel, you can’t handle this, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna break anything of Tony’s, tonight-”

Bucky’s jaw snapped shut in a clench so tight that Peter felt a sharp spur of sympathy. He tilted his head and watched Bucky breathe, as he thought over the last few days and the last few minutes, feeling his way through impressions and thoughts and information that cascaded through his mind. He took a breath and inched forward in the tub, along the man’s thick thighs, watching the man’s wariness only increase with a sense of wonder.

What did Bucky have to be wary of? He was _Bucky_ , the Wolf of Manhattan, the savage beast who hunted for pleasure as well as sport- Peter’d shouted headlines about him for _years_ , now. Heard more stories about the Wolf than the Butcher, in fact, down in Brooklyn, where the Butcher rarely came but the Wolf, well- the Wolf prowled his territory, didn’t he? Bucky’d been jailed for murders twice, and twice the cases had been tossed on technicalities- _technicalities_ , not innocence. What did _Bucky_ have to fear from _Peter_?

Peter thought about Bucky’s voice saying _Well, I’m sick you’re gonna wear my handprint all day_ , how he’d muttered, _Got a temper_ , in a voice choked with self-loathing, and thought, like a shot of electricity hitting him, _Oh._

 _Oh_. He knew what Bucky had to be wary of, he _did_. And it wasn’t Peter. It would never be Peter, what a laughable idea, Bucky nervous about Peter hurting him. Like Peter’s teeth had ever been sharpened on anything.

In any room with the Wolf of Manhattan, the bite to be worried about was the _Wolf’s_.

Well. Bucky wasn’t going to hurt Peter, Peter decided, tightening his jaw. Bucky was a lot of things- a lot of things and maybe even a murderer- but he wasn’t going to hurt Peter. That wasn’t anything Bucky should worry about, he decided. It was going to be Peter’s job to make sure it didn’t happen. Peter took a deep breath and slid forward another small scoot. He reached out for the ewer, discarded by Bucky and floating in the tub beside them. Peter dipped the ewer below the water, filling it as gracefully as he could, and considered Bucky, who watched him with wary, narrowed eyes.

“Bend your head,” Peter suggested. He didn’t order it, with a heavy dictatorial tone, and he didn’t _ask_ it, either. He just- offered it, as an option. Up to the Wolf to decide.

Bucky glared at him, unmoving, for a long moment.

Peter blew out a breath and tried again, adding just a bit of sympathetic coaxing to his tone, “Bend your head, Wolf, lemme wash off the dust.”

“Dust,” snorted Bucky, his eyes darting to the left and right of the tub as if looking for escape. Peter swallowed down a hysterical giggle before pressing his lips together severely. There was nothing _funny_ , here and now. Nothing funny about the slide of his skin, superheated and oversensitized in the scalding water, against Bucky’s thighs. Bucky’s eyes settled on the ewer- or maybe, more specifically, on Peter’s hands gripping the ewer, and he muttered, the thickness of Brooklyn choking his voice, “Dust and dirt and grime and- and all the things ya shouldn’t- that shouldn't touch ya-”

“They shouldn’t,” agreed Peter quietly, easily, shrugging his shoulders so that the water lapped between them, ripples flowing from his motion to hit Bucky and return to him. That _shouldn’t_ was as important to Bucky as it was to Tony, for different reasons, reasons Peter was only beginning to understand after months of living with the men. But it was important to both men, that the work they did at midnight _should not_ interrupt Peter’s sleep, shouldn’t touch him or his happy life here, full of carnival sweets and satin bedding, and ornate invitations written on gilded paper. But Peter wasn’t born into wealth and luxury. He was born a stone’s throw from Bucky’s old stomping grounds, in fact, and so he let his own Queens accent rise up to remind the man dust and dirt and grime weren’t strangers to Peter Stark. “So let’s wash it offa ya, so y’ _can_ touch me. C’mon, Bucky. Let me.” 

Such a careful balance, to tug the man where he wanted Bucky to go without riling up the man’s temper. So hard to ensure it was phrased just right- not a whine or a request. _An offer_. Such a hard balance to hold, but Bucky was worth the effort. Peter took a deep breath and didn’t add anything, poised with the heavy ewer in his hand, nerves singing as he held himself still in the hot water and _waited_.

After another long look, Bucky leaned forward, closing his eyes. Peter took a deep breath, and lifted the ewer, and poured the water- ewerful after ewerful- over the man’s head and neck and shoulders, while the man scrubbed and scrubbed. The water wasn’t noticeably more dirty when he was done, but some of the tension had drained out of him as he opened his eyes under the last fall of water.

“Soap,” said Bucky shortly, and Peter nodded willingly, climbing out of the tub and chiding himself to not slip on the tile as he went to the shelf where their bars of soap were kept on little dishes labeled with their names, Bucky and Steve’s soap side-by-side, together. It gave him a little thrill, to remember whose place he was taking, in Bucky’s bathtub, tonight. He grabbed the bar of black soap labeled _J.Barnes_ and turned, considering the tub.

“Move,” he suggested in a breathy tone, sidling up behind Bucky, pressing one hip to the still-cool porcelain of the tub. 

Bucky twisted to look at him in the tub, gaze hot as it traveled down Peter’s body before nodding and sliding forward a few inches- enough space for Peter to slip into the tub, his body entwined around Bucky under the water.

Peter worked the bar of soap across Bucky’s back, marveling at the way the muscles _moved_ as Bucky hunched into the press of the soap. “Here, hold this,” Peter told Bucky, passing him the soap when there was enough foam built up. He began to dig his fingers in, sliding them across the surface of the man’s skin, down his biceps and back up to his neck, digging into the muscles with his knuckles the way he’d seen May do with Ben after long shifts.

Bucky moaned, as Ben used to moan, tilting his head the same way, and Peter grinned in triumph, digging in with just a little more pressure, a little slower, grinding the stiff muscles until they began to feel _freed_ , and looser. “God, you really are an angel,” muttered Bucky at one point, making Peter quirk a grin and dig his thumbs in at two points that he’d learned were guaranteed to get another moan if he pushed there. Bucky twisted under his hands, hissing, and then chuckled a little as Peter released his hands. 

Bucky soaped up his own arms and chest as Peter worked, dipping his hands below the water and drawing huge cupfuls of the heated warmth to rinse the suds off. The bath had a skim of white suds, now, across the surface, Peter noted, with bigger bubbles popping seconds after Bucky created them with his quick movements. His awareness of the other man had only increased, his body adjusting to the heat of the water far more easily than it adjusted to the heat of Bucky’s naked body sliding and bumping against his own, the thickness of Bucky’s hips forcing his own thighs wide, splaying them against the sides of the tub while he rubbed the man’s shoulders and back, feeling the muscles and bone before him with a sense of awe.

Bucky was big. He was huge, in comparison, with muscles made by hard work- he punched bags with Harley in the morning, but he did other things, Peter was sure of it, in the hours that Harley used for lazing around or goofing around or chasing the maids. His muscles were built on a foundation of _things that needed muscle_ and Peter traced the lines of them, imagining how different it might feel to let that much power inside himself. 

_Would it work some kind of magic_ , he wondered hazily, enjoying the way his soft hands slid across Bucky’s flesh easily, _to have that much power inside him?_ Would he look at Bucky differently, when they were done, would some of that strength be transferred into him? Could it be?

Bucky soaped up his face quickly, gathering water and bending to rinse it before breathing loudly, a quick, “Hah!’ of pleasure, craning his neck this way and that in a stretch. He stood, abruptly, and soaped down his lower half with quick, efficient swipes that made Peter long to tell him, _no, no, let me, I’ll- I’ll rub you_. Peter bit his lip, though, as Bucky spun and sat back down in the water, out of reach of Peter’s touch, reaching behind himself for the plug and pulling it.

The soapy water began to drain immediately, the noise loud in the quiet air of the small room.

The gas lights flickered on the wall, throwing small shadows everywhere their light was blocked by furniture or bathing supplies.

Bucky stared at Peter, and Peter watched him in return, as the water drained. There didn’t seem to be anything he could even think to say. _Thank you_ and _more, please_ and _please, Bucky_ , all died on his lips as he searched the other man’s face, the fire that burned there hotter than the scalding water had been against his skin. He wanted to touch again, wanted to run his hands over those muscles, that strength, wanted to feel that fever pitch of sensation, to lose himself in thoughts of- of-

The silence grew, heavy and thick with all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say, until Bucky turned the water on behind his head, quick flicks of his wrists that reminded Peter that the man _knew_ this tub, had lived with it for years, so many years, could probably find his perfect angle in the dark just before dawn half-drunk or half-dead. That was thrilling, somehow, as Bucky reached for the ewer and quickly poured clean water over his body, refilling it to empty it over Peter’s shoulders, tilting Peter’s head with a careful hand to pour water and not get it in Peter’s eyes. It was thrilling, how well Bucky knew this room, knew what to do next, knew how to-

“There,” Bucky said slowly, carefully, so close to Peter that Peter could tilt his head and lap at the rivulets streaming down Bucky’s sides. If he dared. “All clean.”

“All clean,” repeated Peter slowly, looking up at Bucky, careful and considering, feeling his nerves dance on a knife’s edge of need and caution.

“Outta the tub,” ordered Bucky shortly, levering himself up just as fast, reaching for a towel with a quick hand.

He reached for another towel and Peter expected him to hand it to Peter, but he tossed it lightly on the tiled floor.

_Oh._

_Yeah_.

Peter wanted to say, _About that, Bucky, do we haveta-_

But he knew what the reception on that was likely to be, especially given the other man’s tension and wariness.

He settled himself on the towel without a word, watching Bucky open the cabinet doors and dig around, gather up the supplies he needed and foaming the shaving cream in a cup marked _J.Barnes_.

Bucky glanced down once, setting the cup beside Peter’s hip and said lowly, “Good. Like you nice and quiet like that, Angel.”

Peter nodded.

He was well aware.

He’d tried kicking up a fuss a couple of times, before his daily shave, and it hadn’t been well received.

No.

Not at all.

And tonight? With all this need licking at the edges of his skin, the cool air wafting against the tight hotness that had settled deep within him, during the bath? Tonight he wanted Bucky in a receptive, happy mood. He wanted Bucky to _want_ , wanted Bucky to _need_ , too, with him. There was so much power in the man and Peter wanted to feel it.

He could lie still and let the man do whatever Bucky wanted, if it meant Peter would get what he wanted, as well.

Bucky settled between his legs and shifted them with a practiced, easy hand, and for once Peter’s gaze didn’t drift up to the ceiling, letting the man get on with his job.

It was the middle of the night.

This could have waited until morning.

This wasn’t just a job Bucky did, this was- this was _something else_. Peter’d suspected that after a few shaves, but every time he’d thought it, Bucky had been brusque and quick the next shave, workmanlike, almost cold, muttering about Tony.

But it could have waited until morning. No one would have known, except Peter and Bucky, that Bucky skipped a day. Everyone would have understood.

And yet here they were, Peter’s skin feeling tight and glowing from the bath, Bucky still streaked with the glinting trails of rivulets of water pouring from his short black mane of hair, the tile chilling the towel underneath Peter’s back and Bucky’s hands hot brands of sinful heat everywhere they touched Peter.

Peter slid his arms under his head to help support it as he watched the blade bright and shiny flash out, the tickle of the foam brush against the sensitive skin of his thighs. 

Brush, brush, flick. Brush brush, flick flick flick.

Bucky shaved with short flicks of the razor, his whole attention bent to his task, and Peter imagined, not for the first time, his hair bracing still for the man, trembling at the inevitable slice of the sharp blade. “You know,” said Bucky lowly, his gaze flicking up for a breath of time, his eyes sharp and piercing in the low gas light. “‘S more men in this town who wouldn’t let me near ‘em with a razor than would.”

“Bucky,” said Peter faintly, the argument familiar, short phrases they’d passed back and forth many times, during the short daily ritual, “no man alive wants you near him with a razor.”

“Izzat so?” asked Bucky conversationally, his voice thick with humor. “Not even you?”

Peter’s breath hissed as Bucky tickled the opposite thigh with the brush tip. “Especially not me,” he informed the man, but his dick twitched and he panted it instead of spitting it, as he usually did.

“You don’t show that you’re minding the attention,” said Bucky slowly, with a teasing glance up at Peter, nodding at the half-hard length of Peter’s dick. He dipped his fingers into the mug of foam and slathered soap on Peter’s balls, grinning widely when Peter’s breathing absolutely shattered. “In fact, Angel, you look a little like you’d like some closer attention, in fact.”

“Yeah,” agreed Peter breathlessly. _Brainlessly_. “But _without_ the razor, Wolf.”

Bucky grinned and began to scrape the razor feather-light over the skin there, too, removing every hair with as much concentration as he’d given every inch of Peter so far, grinning whenever Peter’s breath hitched, pressing his fingers into the yielding flesh there just to make Peter gasp and bite his lips, his pecker twitching as it filled. “Awww, Angel,” he crooned. “You like my razor just fine, filling up nicely. If you were scared, didn’t want it, ya wouldn’t be able to get it up.”

Peter bit his lip as Bucky finished, and began to sit up.

“Naw, got one more spot,” Bucky corrected him, making Peter hesitate and freeze half-way through rising. Bucky’s hand dipped into the cup and then glided down Peter’s body, to press between the cheeks of Peter’s backside as he grinned.

“N-no, Bucky,” breathed Peter, shaking his head, feeling his eyes widen in shock as he looked up at the man.

“But yes, Peter,” mocked Bucky, his eyes glinting in response. “You’ll let me, for all you’ll shake and whine and whimper. You’ll let me, Peter, won’t you.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand. The razor glinted in his hand as he waited, calm and collected. Always so damn coiled for- for action, for- for _anything_ , Peter thought wildly. The flames underneath his skin jumped again, and his hips twitched toward Bucky, making the man grin.

“Yes, Bucky,” breathed Peter, caught, tossing his head as Bucky’s finger nudged slickly against his hole.

“Yes, Bucky,” agreed the man lowly, nodding pleasantly, as if this was the expected response. “Lean back.”

Peter collapsed back to the towel and twisted his eyes shut as Bucky dashed soap from the brush there, too, between his cheeks, and the cool kiss of the razor skimmed lightly against that flesh for the first time.

“There,” crooned Bucky, after an eternity of the _brush brush flickflickflick_ rhythm. “All done. Don’t go lying to me about how you’re all upset, Angel. Got evidence against it waving in the wind.”

Peter pried his eyes open and saw Bucky’s grin, first thing, before his hand wrapped warmly around Peter’s bobbing erection. “You go ahead and cry me some crocodile tears, cry me a whole river ‘bout how you don’t _like_ being shaved, Peter Stark, you go right ahead,” teased Bucky, eyes glinting as his hand stroked Peter until Peter gasped up at him, hips following his rhythm. “You go right ahead, Peter Stark, but I ain’t believing a word of it s’long as your body’s telling me a whole different tale.”

Bucky released him to wet a cloth in the sink, waiting until the steam rose up patiently while Peter gulped air and told himself _he would not cry_ about the new sensation around that fresh flesh, how much it made him feel exposed, now, or maybe exposed, _again_. He wiped Peter down with a slow hand, enjoying Peter’s protesting movements away from the heat of the cloth, the faces Peter pulled as he gave in to the need to move, to thrust up into the wet warm of the cloth, thrust up against Bucky’s hand, wiping him clean and fresh and hot, so sinfully hot, everywhere the hand touched or the rag wiped wet heat.

“We’re done here,” declared Bucky, standing swiftly and leaning down to pull Peter up, lifting Peter into his arms again before he could dizzily find his footing. “Mm, that’s nicer,” he murmured to Peter, his arms lifting Peter higher and rubbing Peter’s crotch against his stomach. “Smoother, ain’t so prickly. Something a man can enjoy, now. I see why Stark’s on about it, I see why it makes my daily chore list.”

He laid Peter on the bed carefully, and climbed over top of him to settle between his legs. He stared down at Peter, eyes narrowing, and Peter could see the tension again, in the way he held his shoulders, the way he took long low breaths. Peter marveled at the contrast in the man- his care with the razor, the way he carefully settled Peter on the bedspread, and the way he could lift and carry and toss and _break_ and _hit_ and-

“Rough day, huh?” Peter breathed, to that tension. He thought about all the things he couldn’t say, couldn’t ask- all the things that had to be left unsaid between them, about their respective days, and lifted one hand slowly, carefully, to rest on the man’s stomach. He could feel the muscles there, tight and coiled, and a thrill shivered through him at the strength at the core of the man. “Bet you just- wanted to come home to something nice, huh?”

Bucky snorted, but stayed silent as Peter crept the hand up slowly, fingers dipping along the muscles, noticing the way Bucky’s thick dick began to fill, the longer Peter teased and toyed with Bucky’s taut skin. Peter didn’t look up from his hand, afraid that he’d see derision, teasing, or cold blue eyes, as he crept the hand up further, slowly, rising up with it, Bucky settling back into the space between Peter’s legs. “I could-” he said quietly, into the silence of the room, mesmerized by the play of the gaslight against Bucky’s chest. He swallowed and then told himself he _had_ to look up, to catch- catch Bucky’s reaction, as he offered, “-I could be that something nice, if you wanted it.”

He was looking up, and so he caught it- the moment the man registered the words, how it made Bucky swallow and his jaw clench even tighter. “I bust nice things,” growled the man bluntly, his hands flexing beside his thighs. Just that- just flexing, as if the man wanted to touch and didn’t, as if he held himself back, and Peter thought about what it would feel like if the man just- just unleashed himself, just let himself- and swallowed, dizzy once again. How _powerful_ he’d be, how crazy it would drive Peter, to be caught under all that strength and need and wanton desire, if Bucky _would_.

“You won’t,” Peter told him slowly, gliding the hand up and over Bucky’s shoulder in a sweeping motion, fingertips gliding across heated skin, watching Bucky toss his head before hanging it again, lips parted on a pant that matched Peter’s own hitching breath. Peter felt hypnotized by his own swirling, circling fingertips, as they crested over Bucky’s shoulder again and slid up the man’s neck, applying gentle pressure until the man bent, just a little, just enough- “you won’t hurt me,” breathed Peter again, surging forward, sealing their mouths together.

For the first time, Peter kissed Bucky, and _Bucky_ moaned into it. Peter kept his kisses light, the way Bucky seemed to like it, hesitant and not at all teasing, and Bucky rewarded him by pressing himself forward into the kiss, slowly dipping Peter back down onto his back, Bucky’s thick forearms falling to the mattress to hold himself up. “You’re so sure,” Bucky muttered into Peter’s mouth, his soft kisses. “You’re so sure I won’t bust up something like you, something soft and smooth, like silk, like fairy floss. You’re so sure, huh?”

Peter felt the stubble where Bucky’s beard had begun to grow back all day, all night- it was well into the night- as it ran against his chin, his cheeks. He smiled, thinking of everything he’d learned, the last week, and the months before. “I am,” he said lowly, his voice caught in his throat, and blinked when Bucky’s breath hitched. He smiled into the kiss, a bright, happy moment, and said, low, again, “I am so sure, Bucky.”

Bucky liked sweet things, like fairy floss and sticky sweets. Like Peter could be, too, sweet and soft, hot and sticky, a treat of flesh dreamed up just for Bucky. He could do that, thought Peter, as he licked a broad stripe against Bucky’s lips, bold and certain, for once, that he knew just what to do next, to say next.

Bucky growled wordlessly, and pressed his hips forward, crushing Peter briefly. Peter gasped a breath, tossing his head, before nibbling at Bucky’s lips. “You can have me, don’t you want me?” he whispered breathlessly. “Don’t you want something soft, something smooth and sweet, somethin’- somethin’ _nice-_ to come home to, Bucky? Don’t you work hard, don’t you-” his brain scrambled as Bucky thrust again, his thick length hardening even more, becoming a heavy presence on Peter’s stomach, “-don’t you want that? A little sweet something?”

“Fuck, Angel,” grunted Bucky. “That ain’t a trick a’Harley’s.”

No,” gasped Peter, shaking his head, drawing Bucky down, to kiss the man’s cheek with feather-light touches of his lips, a benediction and a blessing. “No, it’s all mine.” Like fairy floss and bearclaws were all theirs, and a hundred sweet things, like taffy pulled between the two of them under carnival lights, sticking to their fingers and their teeth while their own private circus played around them with a thousand more delights waiting.

“You gonna be my sweet thing?” asked Bucky in a gruff tone, his hand sliding under Peter’s backside to part Peter’s cheeks roughly, press a finger against Peter’s hole and make Peter gasp.

“Yesss,” hissed Peter, tossing his head.

“God, I’ll be so good to you,” promised Bucky, thrusting forward against Peter’s stomach, heavy and hot. “Do my best- not to- to-” but his words were bit off as he kissed Peter’s shoulder, his breath as hot there as the steam of the bathwater had been, kissing the same flesh earlier.

“You will,” agreed Peter, lacing his words with all the trust he could, and all the need. The heat under his skin was unbearable, bursting to the surface every place Bucky touched, making him tremble and shiver with the force of it, his hips shuddering as Bucky’s finger swirled around his tight hole. “Bucky, I-”

“Need you, been achin’-” grunted the man, his finger popping inside Peter, making them both groan in long, drawn out aching breaths. “I’ll use oil, I swear it, I will, Angel, you’ll love it, only please-”

“Yess, Bucky,” hissed Peter again, teeth clenched against the roughness of the fingertip, the way it dug and delved as Bucky crashed against him with thrusts. “Oil, please,” he begged, because he wanted Bucky to slide into him, hot and heavy, and _stay there_ for a long, long time, power and grace and everything heated and hot, the fires in Peter’s bones whispering, _forever, forever,_ as the thick length of Bucky began to drool against his stomach, leaving trails of passionate heat in its wake.

Bucky huffed a breath against his shoulder and nodded, grabbing for the side table and then slipping the finger back out to reach with both hands. He uncapped the little bottle of oil and poured some into this palm, setting it back on the table with a _clink_ of metal on marble.

Peter watched him look into the palm of his hand for a long moment and then reached up, tentative, and slid his fingers through the oil, the liquid clinging to his clean skin in ways that made him shiver. He glanced up at Bucky, who considered him out of narrowed eyes, and then wrapped his fingertips around the head of the man’s cock, making Bucky jump and jerk forward. 

“I’ll be so sweet, for you,” Peter coaxed, an offering and a promise, a temptation. “I’ll be the thing that waits for you, waits to be nice _to_ you, don’t you want that? You spend all day doing what everyone else wants and needs, I seen it, don’tcha want something to do what you want? On a night like this?”

Bucky’s eyes were shut, but his mouth fell open, hips shifting and thrusting into the slippery circle of Peter’s fingers. Peter gathered more oil with his other hand and spread it thickly down Bucky’s cock, applying the pressure he’d learned Harley prefered to the other man’s thicker length to see if it worked. “C’mon, Wolf,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to catch Bucky’s reaction, gliding his hands up sharply and down just as quickly, “you ain’t gonna break me.”

“I might,” grunted Bucky shortly, shaking himself and opening his eyes, glaring down at Peter. “You don’t know-”

“I do,” disagreed Peter quickly, shaking his head, feeling the certainty of his thoughts settle around him. “You picked me, Bucky, just me, Peter Stark. You picked me, and you been keeping me safe, rescuing me, showing me all the best treats at the circus. Why’s that, if not because you want me for something you didn’t have, huh? Why’s that, if it ain’t- for this?”

“I break nice things- nice dames-” grunted Bucky, his hands lifting and then falling to Peter’s thighs, spreading them wider as Peter’s hands toyed with his thick, heavy cock, marveling a little at the size. Bucky touched a finger, slick with oil, to Peter’s pucker, a sensation that made Peter shiver as the oil slid differently, now, across his shaved skin, careening through his crevices and seeping into his skin. 

“I ain’t a dame,” whispered Peter, pressing himself onto the finger, feeling the still slightly-strange _pop_ sensation as it slid beyond the ring of muscle. “And you won’t break me. You won’t. You’re not- you’re my _protection_ ,” he reminded Bucky. “You’re- you keep me _safe_.”

“I do,” agreed Bucky, in a thick voice, his eyes shockingly bright as they lifted from the flesh of Peter’s ass to his face. “I do keep you safe, I will, Peter, I _will_.”

“You will,” agreed Peter, nodding, closing his eyes briefly as Bucky added another finger, encouraging his body to relax, to let the breach happen, to adjust. “So let me be _sweet_ , Wolf,” he demanded, opening his eyes to glare up at Bucky. “Let me be-” he gasped as Bucky pressed another finger in, “-let me _help you_ , too.”

Bucky snorted, and twisted his fingers, making Peter yelp. “You think this’s _helping_ you? Headed straight for Hell itself, little Angel.”

“That’s between me and my priest,” gasped Peter, the corner of his mouth quirking up at Bucky, willing Bucky to let some of that tension drop, some of that stress and worry.

After a long moment, Bucky’s lips twitched and his shoulders dropped, his fingers inside Peter wiggling playfully. “Argued like a Stark,” he murmured, kissing the knee Peter had raised beside him.

“Get inside me,” breathed Peter. “Let me- let me-”

“God, you’re so soft,” Bucky whispered. “You’re so soft and smooth, you’re _sweet_ , Peter Stark, you know that? Grindin’ down on my fingers like that, oughta be ashamed.” 

At the word, a blush spread across Peter’s cheeks. “No, please,” he begged, “Don’t-”

“Don’t what, tell you the truth?” asked Bucky, his voice rougher and rougher as his finger thrusts stretched Peter’s hole wider until the motion hovered just on the edge of pain. “Tell you you’re acting wanton? Tell you if you was a dame, I’d be calling you a sweet-talking hussy, right about now?”

Peter twisted, and squirmed, his hips thrusting down on the fingers, face flushing. “Yeah, that’s what I’d say,” said Bucky, his voice warming up. “Anyone wants my cock that much, this _much_ , Peter,” and he braced himself, lifting his other hand to stroke up and down Peter’s length, “God, the names I’d call them, straight outta the Bible, Angel. You _Jezebel_.”

“Bucky,” gasped Peter, shocked when Bucky pulled his fingers roughly back. 

“You’re so certain I won’t bust you up,” mused Bucky in that same low voice, rough with lust. “So certain you can handle me. Such sweet words, coaxing me into givin’ you my rod, that right, little Angel? This what you want?”

The fat head of his cock pressed against Peter’s hole as Peter tossed his head again, torn between pressing back and down on it, to get the worst part over, and not proving Bucky’s words about his wantonness right. 

“Be my sweet thing,” crooned Bucky, mocking Peter’s early offer, his grin delighted as Peter trembled on the tip of his dick. He dipped his head to nip and kiss at the side of Peter’s neck before hauling himself back again, to tease, “Slide yourself down and on, c’mon, Angel, show me how _nice,_ how _sweet_ you wanna be to me, tonight.”

Peter bit his lip and pressed his hips down, then, shoving himself roughly on the cock head until it slid inside with a pop of sensation. The motion made him gasp, bringing flashing lights across his vision, the dick thicker than all three fingers Bucky had been twisting inside him moments before. He panted, attempting to adjust to the thickness inside him while Bucky groaned, “Fuck, fuck, Angel, so good, so slick and soft, so _sweet-_ ”

Peter shifted, shoving himself just a little further onto Bucky’s hard, thick length, drawing a groan from both of their throats. “Please,” he begged, “Oh, _please_ , Bucky.”

“Oh, I’m giving it to you, now, can’t tease a man like that, with all that softness and niceness, that sweet voice begging for all the worst sins, and not expect me to _take mine_ , Angel,” growled Bucky, shifting his hips in his first little thrust on the last words, making them both grunt as Peter’s body fought the intrusion. “Fuck, you’re tight, little Angel,” muttered Bucky.

Peter nodded helplessly, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. This was always the worst part, he’d learned. He’d adjust, he would, he’d adjust and relax and the bright lights would be back, the hellfire sparks that would slide him into his own body spurting and spilling, but first this, the struggle to take and accept- “Ahh!” he gasped, as Bucky thrust again.

“Christ, you crying?” mumbled Bucky, lifting a hand from the mattress to trail it down Peter’s temple to the corner of his eye. “Fuck, that’s-” and he thrust again, as Peter gulped air and nodded, pressing into the thrust, wondering if maybe Bucky was right and his dick _would_ break Peter, somehow. “Gimme tears,” demanded Bucky roughly. “Give ‘em to me, Peter, them great big crocodile tears you’re always crying, fuck, I was right, your dick’s leaking all over you, _take_ me,” he grunted, thrusting again and seating himself deep inside Peter.

Peter cried out, then, and lay trembling underneath Bucky, their bodies pressed tightly together, Bucky hovering above him on his elbows and forearms. “Gonna be my nice thing, huh?” asked Bucky, his voice just a little teasing. “Gonna be my little bit of soft and sweet, well, Angel, you’re as soft and sweet on my dick as your face is soft and sweet, and as wet, look at you crying,” he crooned. He nuzzled in as Peter gasped at the sensations in his body, the little licks of stretch and too-much quickly being overtaken by the heat and hellfire flames from the press of Bucky’s thick dick inside him. Bucky nuzzled and then licked, up Peter’s neck and across his jawline, lapping at the tear tracks running from Peter’s eyes. 

Bucky pulled back for a moment and then slid his dick out, both of them moaning at the sensation. He smiled up at Peter and said, “Be nice and loud now, if you need t’be, I won’t mind it,” and slammed his hips up, pulling Peter onto him.

Peter cried out, again, shocked, his back bowing up off the bed. “There ya go,” crooned Bucky. “There ya go, be my soft thing, be sweet for me, Peter, let me-” he grunted as he slid out, interrupting the flow of low words. Peter gasped, Bucky’s cock gliding against that spot deep within him that caused hellfire sparks to run up and down his spine, locking him into that stretched out posture. “-God, let me _have_ you, Angel.”

Bucky continued to thrust, pulling and pushing Peter’s body away from and back onto his cock, Peter hissing and crying out, shocked at the force of it, at the power in the man’s arms, his thighs, the way he lifted and shifted Peter as if Peter weighed no more than a double handful of sweet-spun fairy floss.

The pleasure crested in Peter shocking and swift, as Bucky grunted and thrust again and again, hitting that sinful spot and sending up sparks with every movement. He fought for breath and struggled not to- not to- so soon- so quickly, too quickly!- and lost, feeling the swell of it crash over him, shaking him along every limb as he spilled onto his stomach. 

“Wet there, too,” chuckled Bucky into the next thrust, “hafta get a taste of that later, too.” He nuzzled Peter’s cheek as Peter moaned, every nerve ending in his body on fire, and lapped at the tears that continued to collect and fall, Peter’s gasping the loudest noise in the room as Bucky continued to thrust and thrust, forcing his way in only to withdraw almost entirely and force his way back inside.

“Toldja I’d bust ya,” gasped Bucky.

“‘M not busted,” protested Peter, crying out wordlessly as Bucky thrust again. “God, ‘m not _busted_ ,” he repeated.

“Not some tart, some dopey dame,” agreed Bucky, grinding his hips, now, small, powerful shivers of movement that shocked deep inside Peter, rekindling the flames, his dick twitching helplessly between them. “My sweet thing,” he whispered against Peter’s neck, sucking a single spot high up as Peter’s arms curled around him, drawing Bucky down, his legs wrapping around Bucky, needing to feel that power, again. Needing to feel the motion of the man between his thighs, the strength of the man as he took what Peter gave willingly, wantonly.

Bucky laughed, and pulled back just a little, enough to kiss along Peter’s jawline and chin. “Look at you,” he crooned. “All that sticky sweetness, just waiting for me, now, wanting me to break you some more. God, you’re like taffy, you know that? Sweet and soft, stretched out on me like this, never felt anything like it, Angel.”

“More,” Peter breathed. “More, please, Bucky, gimme-”

“There you are, there’s my sweet talking little hussy,” chuckled Bucky, thrusting again, a long draw and a fast, sharp press in, setting a new rhythm, again, a driving rhythm that made Peter buck, underneath him, buck and shift and moan and bow his back, arching into it wildly. “There’s my sweet hussy,” hissed Bucky, his eyes narrowing as Peter panted up at him, wild-eyed with need. “There you are, Angel, show me you want me,” Bucky growled,grinding against that sinful spot inside Peter, grinding and grinding while Peter gasped and bucked, his hand clutching onto Bucky’s shoulders as if the man were the only thing preventing him from drowning under the waves of hot heat rippling through his body with every thrust. 

God, but Bucky was so big, inside him. He did feel broken, split, stretched like taffy, and still the man ground into him, pulling back only so he could shift forward, holding back nothing as Peter gasped and cried out, clutching Bucky tighter with his heels, encouraging the man to go _deeper_ with wordless hitches of his hips and meaningless moans of “Bucky, more, more, Bucky, please.”

At last, Peter felt the waves of warmth and licks of sinful pleasure crest for a second time, whimpering aloud as Bucky groaned. Peter felt his flesh clenched down around Bucky, and felt, too, the warm flood of Bucky’s spill into Peter. Bucky shivered and quaked above him, strong muscles trembling in a way that caught Peter’s attention with awe in the moments before he collapsed on top of Peter.

It took a long moment, both of them panting, but when Peter came back to a world that had stopped spinning, he gasped, “God, do it again, please, Bucky, please, stretch me like that again, do- please-”

Bucky’s return chuckle had all the bright joy of victory, but his soft kisses on Peter’s shoulder had Peter melting deeper against the pillows and blankets underneath him. “My sweet thing, my nice, soft, sweet thing to come home to,” mumbled Bucky, sounding still breathless and exhausted.

Above him, in the dark, Peter nodded, and kissed the top of the man’s head where it rested on his shoulder. “Yeah, Bucky. Your sweet thing. Come home to me, every time. I- please, please, Bucky.”

“Sure y’will, y’Angel,” agreed Bucky, his voice slurring into sleep. 

Peter stared up at the ceiling, delighted in the darkness, the twitching flutters of the man’s softening cock already beginning deep within him. “That’s right, Bucky,” he said softly, soothingly. “Your Angel.” 

“F’me,” said Bucky into Peter’s shoulder.

“Something sweet and soft, t’come home to,” agreed Peter, the night air from the open window chilling the sweat on his skin and raising goosebumps everywhere Bucky’s body heat didn’t reach.

It had been a long day, begun early and slogged through, and now here he was, at the heart of his Empire, the best bodyguard in the nation slumped across him, his hole aching and stretched and his heart still pounding with the race of sensations, thrilling the powerful feeling of not _breaking._ Not even a little bit. He hadn’t broken, he’d _stretched_ , like taffy pulled in all directions.

He wouldn’t be safer anywhere else in the City, he mused. He couldn’t be. The Wolf of Manhattan was settled in above him, worn out by him, buried still inside him.

Bucky’s breathing began to slow and Peter rolled his eyes, wondering if a sweet, nice, soft angel would shove a man off of him and pull up the covers.

Maybe. If he didn’t want to be crushed all night and wanted the warmth more _distributed_ , Peter decided.

But he’d give the Wolf some more time, yet, buried deep inside Peter’s warmest spaces.

Purely a sacrificial decision, he told himself, tilting his head back as Bucky’s breathing evened out, running one hand slowly up and down the muscles of the man’s back, tracing the power and the glory that rest there, on top of him. Slightly crushing him, sure, but- but not breaking him. 

Nothing broke Peter Stark, not here, in the heart of the Empire.

Not even the Wolf of Manhattan.

Or maybe, especially not the Wolf of Manhattan, Peter conceded, smiling a little before craning his head to kiss Bucky’s shoulder again.

He settled back down with a sigh, shifting his hips to enjoy the last golden sparks of the stretch inside him, amazed and awed and feeling glowy and warm.

And wet. 

Yeah.

When he finally pushed Bucky off of him, it was gonna be to go grab some towels, he decided.

But not just yet, no.

Not just yet.


	3. Chapter 3

“Peter,” says Steve quietly, and Peter looks up from his book to say, “Huh?” just as quietly, pulling himself back from the story with a pained sense of longing.

“Come swimming,” suggests Steve, a small smile twitching on his lips.

“Oh, yes,” laughs Peter, feeling stupid, shaking his head a little as he stands and collects himself. “Yeah, yes, Steve. I just- Agatha Christie is just so _good_ , Steve, have you ever read a book and thought, _it feels like it’s happenin’_? That’s how good she is.”

“I haven’t, no,” says Steve slowly, still smiling. “But I’ve looked at a painting and felt like I was standing in a field of flowers, so yeah, I can grasp the sensation, I think.”

Peter nods cheerfully, leading the way out of the library. “I’ve never been to an- an art gallery, but I read about ‘em in the papers, you know that, Steve? Whole building just full of art, maybe- maybe we could go one day, or Tony could take us?”

“Maybe we could,” agrees Steve easily. “I know I’d like it, maybe we could grab Pepper, too, take her with us.”

Peter snorts as an idea pops into his head. “Yeah, but if we take Happy as her guard, we gotta take Karen, too, please Steve?”

“Mm,” says Steve, eyes alight. “Why, though, Peter? Why would we have to take Karen?”

“Oh, something I keep seein’,” Peter tells him happily. “You know she brought me cookies and she was blushing at Happy, he was blushing right back at her, Steve.”

“She’s a good enough girl,” Steve considers, his eyes twinkling at Peter as he pushes open the door.

“Oh, hey, towels,” yelps Peter, twisting.

“Took care of ‘em,” Steve chuckles, holding out an arm to bar Peter’s way. “Kept waiting for you to pull outta the book, but you were caught up in it pretty tight, I guess.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Peter evades. “Nice to have the sunshine, cool off a bit, thanks for pulling me outta the book.”

They wander past the arbor, Peter lifting his eyebrows at Steve and nodding to the sleeping forms of Bucky and Harley, each man curled on a thick-cushioned wicker couch, barefooted and in undershirts and pants. Steve mimes sneaking by silently and Peter nods, smiling back at him and trying to muffle his footsteps against the stone path.

“Bucky and him been hitting the bags in the mornings,” Steve says in an undertone when they’re finally on the path to the pool. “Buck’s trying to wear him out a bit, Harley hates the end of summer and they’ll be hissing and fighting and having pissin’ matches here over schoolwork in about a week or so. Buck figures if he can get Harley up in the morning and get Harley’s body used to movin’, maybe he won’t have to fight him out of bed _and_ into that desk for Pepper.”

Peter snorts and offers, “I can get him up and outta bed for Bucky, if he wants a hand.”

Unbidden, the image of his night with Bucky earlier in the week superimposes itself over Harley’s homecoming last night and he swallows hard.

Steve smirks down at him, as if he can read Peter’s thoughts, and says, “Or a mouth, Angel? ‘Cause I know you weren’t thinking of hauling him out of the bed, were ya?”

Peter’s face flushes- _is he that transparent to Steve?_ “Uh, no,” he says evasively. “I was- wasn’t thinking of hauling on him, no.”

“You boys have your fun, don’t you?” asks Steve lightly.

“We, uh, do,” says Peter, feeling flustered. Steve isn’t Harley or Tony, with their wicked tongues and ways of saying stuff that makes it feel _natural_ to say something back, to talk about this stuff. Somehow when Steve talks about it, says anything, it feels- it feels-

“That all you’re gonna say?” teases Steve. “Here I’ve been all worried about you, watching you so closely, after that first morning when I walked in on you and the boss. Harley’s been yammering like always and Tony’s been smug and secretive, Bucky’s been buttoned up, and you haven’t said _anything_ , Peter. I know you been busy, but we can still _talk_ , right?”

Peter flushes again, thinking of- thinking of what he could tell Steve now, about what dicks like and what they don’t like. “What- what do you want to know?” he asks defensively.

“Well, Tony and Harley brag a good game,” says Steve slowly, stripping off his shirt and tossing it on one of the chairs. “But do you- it’s good for you? You like it?”

Peter shrugs off his suspenders and begins to untuck and uncuff and unbutton his own shirt, imitating Tony’s quick wrist flicks for practice. “I do,” he mumbles, red-cheeked, unable to make eye contact with Steve. “I- um. I like it,” he adds, just in case the mumble was hard to hear.

“That’s good,” Steve tells him in a warm tone, unbuckling his belt and sliding it off, tossing it on top of his shirt.

Peter lets the pants drop off of his hips with a shimmy and pushes his drawers down, too. Nobody female ever comes out to the pool, anyway, like it’s an unwritten rule that the boys own it in the afternoon. Sometimes ‘Tasha and Pepper come down if the evening’s too hot, in swim outfits, and wade and swim to cool down, and then even Harley wears a swimming suit, but during the afternoon, nobody has to put on anything more than bare skin, and it’s _so nice_ to cool down this way.

On a day like today, well, there’s something special about having the pool just to him and Steve. It’s fun, when there’s a crowd, and everyone’s jostling and jumping around, playing tag or tossing a horseshoe in, diving for it, but when it’s just him and Steve?

“You ready?” asks Steve, his voice a little husky. Peter nods, once, and steps out of the puddle of his clothes on the hard deck around the pool. He doesn’t look at Steve, heart suddenly in his throat, as he begins to walk to the pool, feeling his nerves jump.

Steve chuckles and then leaps forward, grabbing him up and laughing, “Gotcha,” when Peter yelps, and tossing them both into the pool with a splash.

Peter surfaces and Steve grins at him, treading steadily in the deep water, “You okay?” he chuckles, as Peter glares at him in mock affront. 

“Got _water_ up my _nose_ ,” Peter informs him loftily, slowly shifting away from Steve in the water, calculating, his heart racing.

“You always say that,” laughs Steve, tossing his head and leaning back, clearly tracking Peter’s movement but not _doing_ anything about it yet.

“You’re a- a-” begins Peter, mind racing for something he can call Steve that’ll rile the other man, rile him the way Peter’s riled. “A big dumb mook,” he calls, pushing away a little faster.

“I’ll show you big dumb mook,” chuckles Steve, his eyes narrowing with who-knows-what calculations.

Peter yelps, turning and diving in a single smooth move the way Bucky had shown him weeks ago. It’s so much easier in flesh instead of fabric, he notices, enjoying the way the water caresses down his sides smoothly.

Peter swims, and Steve chases, and the hot sun shines down on their glistening skin, the air swollen and heavy with the last of the heat of summer. 

Steve chases, like he always does, but his grabs are a little tighter, and Peter has to work harder to pull free of them, rubbing his body against Steve’s and working to find the weak spots in the man’s grip. Peter still laughs, every time Steve’s hand clamps on his elbow or knee, hauling him closer, but he notices Steve’s answering chuckle isn’t as lighthearted as it usually is.

As it used to be.

Before.

Eventually, Peter gasps, “Stevie, no, please, Captain, I surrender,” and clings to Steve, in the part of the pool where Steve can stand flat footed and Peter can’t reach on tip-toe.

“Captain, is it?” asks Steve, panting, wrapping his arms underneath Peter’s backside and lifting him, just a little. His voice rumbles from his chest and into Peter’s, deep and steady and sure.

“Yes,” says Peter, just as sure, tilting his head back to look up at Steve. Steve looks down at him, thinking who knows what, and Peter raises a hand, pushes his hair behind his ear, and smiles. “Yes, sir,” he adds.

“I accept your surrender,” says Steve slowly, carefully, almost like he’s cautious.

A shiver thrills through Peter and he knows Steve catches it when the man takes a quick breath, almost silent and unnoticeable. Silent and unnoticeable, except Peter is plastered to his chest, skin to skin, with only the thinnest barrier of water between them, and so he _feels_ it.

“You wanna head upstairs?” asks Steve, just as slowly.

“Yes, sir,” says Peter, the words almost thick in his mouth, as he feels the water around them, wrapping them in the coolth of midnight despite the harsh light of the day.

“All right, Angel,” murmurs Steve quietly, walking them over to the side like Peter weighs nothing at all, and lifting Peter to sit on the edge. 

Peter’s skin feels raw and chilled everywhere it no longer receives the warmth of Steve’s body pressed against it, even while the sun beats down on his back and the warm stone of the patio floor bakes up from underneath. Steve hauls himself up beside Peter and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against Peter’s temple.

“You, Captain,” says Peter, staring at the way the light sparkles on the small waves of the water, because looking beside him at Steve would be as hazardous as looking at an eclipse.

“Peter,” coaxes Steve quietly.

“Upstairs?” asks Peter plaintively. “Not- not here.”

“All right,” sighs Steve, pushing up to stand. Peter twists himself upward, all awkward limbs, and follows, grabbing a towel and rubbing himself down roughly before slinging it around his waist.

“Leave the clothes,” suggests Steve. “I’ll come back for ‘em later.”

“Yes,” agrees Peter shortly, his skin feeling tight and hot, eaten up by the sudden shameful embarrassment that licks at it. He shouldn’t _want_ these things, shouldn’t want to rub himself against Steve, shouldn’t think about how Steve’s smile lights up his eyes and makes Peter think-

Well. 

He swallows the memory of his last taste of Steve’s spill, of how Steve had praised him and how _good_ he’d felt, kneeling for the man, drawing Steve’s pecker out of his pants and pressing kisses to it.

The towel tucked tightly around his waist, he flees his thoughts up the stairs, Steve right behind him.

~~~

“You’re jumpy,” says Steve, closing the door to his suite and locking it. “We don’t have to-” he begins, so damned confident and sure, so calm.

“I want-” spits Peter, clutching the towel on his waist and scowling at Steve’s feet. “I want-”

“What do you want, little Angel?” asks Steve, stepping forward into Peter’s space. His hands come up and cup Peter’s jaw, softly and gently, cradling there.

Peter’s hands fly up from the towel to rest on Steve’s as he mumbles, “I want- Steve- I want-”

“Tell me,” urges Steve. “You can tell me anything, Peter. You know what I’ve done, you know what I’ll do for you.” _I’m going to spill into you, after Tony, every chance I can make, and you’re going to love every minute of it, Angel_ , repeats Peter’s memory, and he flinches in Steve’s hands, one hand dropping to secure the towel.

“I want you to,” Peter says fiercely, before falling silent and standing there, one hand pressing Steve’s hand into his cheek, the other clutching his towel. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and then lets the towel fall, taking a step closer to the broad chest that holds him in the night when he cries, that chases him in the pool and crushes him down into the bed to press soft kisses against his heated flesh. “I want you to,” he repeats, tilting his chin up and glancing up at Steve.

Steve looks down at him like he’s the eighth wonder of the world and says, “Ahh, Angel, you want me, huh?”

“Yes,” says Peter softly, biting his lip.

“Naw, don’t go worrying at that,” says Steve, rubbing a thumb against Peter’s lip. He dips his head for a gentle kiss and breathes, “Want it in tip-top condition for what I want to do to you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll let you,” says Peter with a confidence that comes out just a little breathless. “I want-”

“Here, the bed,” says Steve quietly, stepping forward, his hands still cradling Peter’s skull.

“Yes,” agrees Peter simply, stepping backward, in the direction he wants to go more than anything, right now. He doesn’t trip over the towel, or Bucky’s pajama bottoms, he doesn’t trip on anything, until the back of his thighs touch the soft cool crispness of the linen sheets.

“What do you want, Peter Stark,” asks Steve with intense need crackling through his voice.

“Just you,” breathes Peter, sure of it. “Just- I need-”

“Me,” whispers Steve, and then he dips his head and captures Peter’s lips.

They mold together like Peter’s lips were made for the shape of Steve’s- or maybe that’s just Steve’s accommodation of Peter, the way he’s always there, always right, no matter what time it is or what Peter needs. Maybe it’s just- maybe it’s just _that_.

Peter presses into the kiss, feeling feverish and hot, now, hot against the cool cling the sheets and hot against Steve, burning up against Steve as he presses himself upward. “Please,” he chokes into the kiss. “Can you- please- Captain, I-”

“Shhh, little Angel,” murmurs Steve. “Shhh. I got you.”

Peter nods, just a little, just to show that he heard- he _understands_ \- and then, as Steve’s hands raise up and trace around his hips, he whimpers. “Shhh,” soothes Steve, lifting him up and dropping him back further on the bed, so that his legs stick out on either side of Steve’s thighs. Steve crawls on top of him, then, pushing Peter’s knees to bend, bend and spread wide, to _open_ for him, as Steve dips back down for another powerful kiss. 

Peter’s skin crawls with needs he can’t name, as Steve looms above him and mutters soothing nonsense against his lips, hands trailing up and down Peter’s sides and chest, thumbs flicking a nipple in a friendly way as they pass. “Steve,” he gasps, “please, I need-”

“Me,” agrees Steve, chuckling now, chuckling at Peter and pulling back. “You sure know how to make a fella feel welcome, Angel. Look at you,” he croons, eyes twinkling. 

Peter is suddenly horribly conscious of his body, of the way he’s splayed open and arched up to touch Steve. Of the way his lips feel puffy and he’s panting, just a little, of his hard cock arching towards his stomach, already dripping the first drops of his desire onto his stomach. He can feel, too, the blush begin to spread, as the flames lick against him from the inside out. He closes his eyes and hears Steve chuckle. “None of that, Angel,” Steve murmurs. A hand reaches out to caress Peter’s cheek as Steve says, “Open those eyes up, Angel, the things we’ll do together shouldn’t be done in the dark.”

Peter’s eyes flutter open, his cheeks so reddened they ache, and he whispers up at Steve, “Shouldn’t they?” aware of this position, with the man in the towel kneeling between his thighs. _Taking a man between your thighs_ , offers up his memory, and he swallows. He’s taking Steve between his thighs, this afternoon, and it feels _momentous_. 

“Maybe, maybe they should,” says Steve seriously, before dipping down to press his lips to Peter’s gently, soft as if Peter’s whole body is made of carefully balanced flower petals and he doesn’t want to disturb the structure of the whole while he dips in for the sweetest nectar. He pulls back and murmurs, “but if I’m going to hell for sinning with you, Angel, I’m not gonna close my eyes and miss one moment of it.”

“Oh,” gasps Peter, shocked. Steve takes advantage of his silence to lick Peter’s mouth open and explore every inch before leaning back and whispering, “Can I get you ready?”

“Yes,” begs Peter, shattered. “Yes, please, Steve, I want- I need-”

“Me,” agrees Steve, with that same pleased grin. He reaches for the nightstand and the bottle there, popping off the top and pouring the oil into his hands. “And I’ll give you everything you need, Angel, I will, I’m good for it.”

“I know,” gasps Peter, as Steve’s finger swirls at his entrance. “Please, please, help- find the-”

“I know what you need, Angel,” Steve reminds him sharply, and Peter nods, biting his lip. Of course Steve does. Steve- Steve was the first person to find- Steve will know what to do. Peter lets his head fall back to the cool sheets and moans as the finger breaches the tight pucker of muscle in his backside. “There you are,” croons Steve happily. “There you go. Just like that, Peter, Angel. Relax into me, feel it, feel how your body _wants_ this, Angel? That’s so good, y’r being so good for me.”

Peter nods, groaning, as the finger presses into the spot that makes his body tremble and fill with heat and hellfire. His pecker jumps with each slow jab that Steve makes against that spot, and Steve makes a noise of delight. “Angel, you were made for this,” he says, in a tone of awe.

“Was I?” asks Peter blearily, trying to keep his eyes open. “Was I, Captain?”

“You were, Angel,” says Steve firmly, adding a second finger with the same confident assurance as the first. “Your whole body wants me in, I can see it, the way it twists on my fingers and it’s still not enough, is it, Peter? You still want more?”

Peter bites his lip and _doesn’t close his eyes_ as he tells the man, “Yes, yes, please,” feeling the heat of his blushes spread to his shoulders, then, and overwhelm the taut flesh there with the same fever that clenches his jaw tightly. 

“Yeah, I can tell it, look at how you’re drooling, Angel,” chuckles Steve. “God, wish I could stop everything and paint ya. I’d do it all up with the brightest colors in the paintset, capture the brown of your wet hair against my sheets, the way your cheeks’re blushed as bright red as your lips, way your skin’s so pale I can see blue veins pumpin’ blood everywhere. Lord, I’d paint you and keep you this way on my wall, I would, Peter.”

Peter’s lips part as Steve talks, and begin to feel dry as he pants in and out across them. Steve slips a third finger in with the two already delving and seeking out that sinful rub of flesh, and Peter can’t help himself- he licks over his lips, knowing how it must look, his knees splayed and cock leaking, eyes half-closed and trained on Steve’s face. He can feel the blush fading from his skin as his tongue licks out, rolling across his lip and leaving wetness in its wake.

It certainly arrests Steve’s attention for a moment. 

Peter thrills with that knowledge, and then feels the elation of capturing Steve’s wide-eyed disbelief as he shifts his hips and presses into Steve’s fingers, grinding down just a little, just to see what Steve will do.

“Angel,” gasps Steve, his eyes flying, shocked, to Peter’s flushed face. 

“Want you,” Peter chokes out. “Don’t paint me, not with _paint_. Don’t stop- don’t you stop!- until I’m painted with _you_.”

Steve grins tightly at him, and then grunts, “I like that, Angel. Like that idea. Like the idea that I’ll be painting you pearly white, from the inside out, in just a few minutes, here.” His fingers stretch apart, and Peter marvels at how much is inside him, how he can feel each individual finger although the sum of the whole of them is surely more than any of the individual fingers merely crammed in side by side, as Steve presses his fingers against Peter’s flesh and stretches it.

“Steve,” gasps Peter. “Please, please, can I- can I- _see_ you?”

He’s forgotten how big Steve is in comparison to Tony or Harley or _Bucky_. Forgotten the details of Steve’s cock, and can only imagine how different it will feel, sliding into him, filling him up and then _painting_ him.

“Mm, no need, don’t want to- make you nervous,” mutters Steve, leaning forward and giving Peter a deep kiss. “I’ll make sure you’re ready for it,” he reminds Peter. “You just worry about feeling good.”

“Feeling good, yes, sir,” agrees Peter, abandoning any concern over Steve’s cock. He does feel good, with the slide and drag of Steve’s fingers against his walls, filling him, reminding him of midnight with Tony or yesterday afternoon with Harley. Reminding him that he’s a minx and a baby boy and a little bit of something sweet and- and he can be whatever it is Steve needs, whatever it means to be something Steve paints, wants to paint, something Steve _likes the shape of_.

“Time,” says Steve shortly, and then the towel shifts and Peter swallows, because he _did_ forget, he _did,_ how long Steve’s cock is, how it’ll reach places no one ever has, once it’s inside him. Peter swallows and licks his lips, hears Steve’s intake of breath, and then wraps his hands around his own knees, because otherwise he’ll clutch at Steve and pull the man closer to him, and right now he wants Steve to _see_ , so that the man can line them up together.

“Good,” huffs Steve. “Always so good for me, Angel. Always thinking- what you can do- for me,” he gasps, thrusting forward and breeching Peter’s barrier easily, slipping inside and then stopping, while Peter tosses his head and shakes with the feeling of _fullness_ again.

“In,” gasps Peter, because the slow slide is in many ways worse than the fast thrust. Steve catches his eye and grins, his eyes lighting up as he asks, “You need me that bad, huh?”

“In, please, Captain,” begs Peter, shifting back as much as he can while still holding his own knees. 

“Yes, Peter,” teases Steve, giving a little thrust back and forth, seating himself deeper. “God, you do like this, Angel, don’tcha? You _were_ made for it, just for us, weren’tcha?”

Peter shivers and then nods, as Steve shoves himself just a little deeper, moving in fast little thrusts, now, each one seating him deeper and deeper in a snappy rhythm that makes Peter gasp and moan and make small hurting noises at each thrust.

“Steve, please,” he begs, when Steve stops and pants.

“Minute, gotta-” gasps Steve.

“No, I _need,_ ” protests Peter, tossing his head again. “Please, Steve, don’t stop-”

The stretch is bearable, while Steve’s length slides back and forth over Peter’s sinful spot, sparking the angry coil of desire in the pit of his stomach and the shaky fever shocks of need across the rest of his body.

“Have to,” gasps Steve. “Or I’m gonna burst.”

Peter feels his world shake apart at the need in Steve’s voice, the roughness of it, the way the man trembles above him. “Please,” he begs Steve, now, feeling frantic, his hips shifting in small little thrusts of his own, mimicking the rhythm he wants to feel shudder through him. “Please, Steve, Captain, please, Captain, my Captain,” he babbles.

“Peter,” grunts Steve, and then he’s moving again, frantic little thrusts away from and then back into Peter. “Don’t- don’t want it to hurt-”

“Doesn’t,” insists Peter, which is maybe a slight exaggeration. 

Steve is the one biting his lip now, Peter realizes, biting his lip and every line on his body is taut with tension. Peter lifts a wondering hand and slides it up and down Steve’s back, shocked at how the man’s breathing switches patterns. “Oh, Steve,” Peter sighs. “Just- please- need you, need this, you can- you don’t- don’t-”

“Shhh,” Steve tells him, and then pulls back and slides in as deep and fast as he can, dragging the length of his cock against Peter’s sinful spot and making Peter yelp. 

“That good?” asks Steve huskily, holding himself just above Peter’s skin.

“Yes, yes, yes,” chants Peter. “More, please, please _move_ , friction, Steve, please?”

“Oh, is that what your hole wants, Angel? Is that what holes like?” teases Steve gently. “Peckers like wet and warm and friction, movement. And holes like movement and friction, too?”

“Please,” begs Peter, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes with how good this feels, how full, how- how overwhelming it is, to have Steve’s long length buried inside him. _Touching where no one else has ever been before_. “Yes, Steve, they want- I want-”

“Me,” agrees Steve in a suddenly deep and intense tone. “Say it, Peter,” he demands, the shift from teasing and playful to intense and greedy shocking a gasp out of Peter.

Peter tosses his head and then shifts his hips up, forcing Steve to slide the last little bit deeper. “You,” he gasps. “You, I want- I need- please, _move_ , Steve. You.”

“You want _me_ ,” grunts Steve, drawing back and then pressing in again, establishing a slow and deep rhythm, as if emphasizing that his length. “You want me to do this, Angel, to slide sinfully between these thighs and take what I want, huh?”

“Y-yes,” stutters Peter, closing his eyes, finally, against the onslaught of everything he feels, as the fever and heat rise up through his muscles and settle into his bones, making his hips snap up to meet Steve on every thrust without any conscious decision to do so. “You, Steve, you,” he gasps, followed by, “in me, please, please,” when Steve pulls almost all the way out as if he’s teasing Peter.

“Not- _fuck_ \- gonna last, Angel, so- so-” pants Steve. 

“Good, yes, please, Steve,” begs Peter. That’s fine with him, this is beyond good, this is everything his hole wants, everything he wouldn’t have known to ask for- wouldn’t have been able to ask Steve for.

“You look,” gasps Steve, but he doesn’t finish his statement, instead groaning, loud and low, and then shuddering to a stop deep inside Peter.

Peter whines wordlessly, shifting his hips to grind back on Steve.

“I will, I will,” promises Steve, kissing Peter’s shoulder before switching to Peter’s jaw. “I will take care of you,” he pants. “Just- let me-”

Peter nods wordlessly, and notes with shocked wonder the way Steve’s muscles tremble above him, the way the man thrusts a few more times as if he cannot believe how good it feels to press into Peter.

“Let you,” agrees Peter. “Yes. Love it, love- you- inside-”

“You’re so perfect, Angel,” gasps Steve, shaking his head and huffing a laugh before pushing himself up to look down at Peter. “So perfect for us and so perfect for _this_ and how the hell did Harley find you in that trash heap?”

Peter looks back up at Steve and smiles with exhilaration. “Well, it was you that kissed me.”

Steve smiles and says, “It was. And it was the kiss that started everything, wasn’t it?”

Peter nods and then gasps when Steve reaches a hand down and begins to stroke him, “Your turn,” Steve hums lowly. 

Peter nods again and can feel Steve’s eyes on him, _liking the shape of him_ , as he arches his back a little, just to let the feel of that stimulation slide through his body better. Just to give the hellfire flames new nooks and crannies to lick at. Just to- to feel another kind of stretch in his body, with Steve buried deep inside him.

Steve doesn’t have to stroke and hold himself up for long, though, because Peter’s pecker likes motion and friction and _Steve_ , and it’s not long before he’s whining and painting his stomach with his own pearly white oils.

“God, the things you do to me, and- and _for_ me,” pants Steve, sliding himself out of Peter and tossing himself on the bed beside Peter, grabbing Peter up in a tight hug and twining their legs together.

Peter loves when Steve catches him up like that. Loves the way he feels small and protected, in the tight hold of Steve’s arms. Loves the way his body glides and slides, wet and messy, against Steve’s skin.

“Painted white,” murmurs Steve, skimming his fingers through the mess on Peter’s stomach before reaching between them to touch the mess dripping from Peter’s backside. “Inside and out.”

“Pure as angel’s wings,” mutters Peter, rolling his eyes a little at the black humor of the statement.

“Say, I like that,” considers Steve, kissing Peter for a moment before drawing back and saying, “Suppose that’s another argument I can use, that we were built to do this, built to have this.”

“Huh?” asks Peter, confused and still winded.

Steve laughs, “Nothing, Peter. Don’t worry about it. Here, I’ll get you cleaned up.”

“No- don’t- don’t go-” protests Peter. “Please, Steve, not yet.”

The look of tenderness on Steve’s face catches Peter’s breath in his throat.

“Yeah, okay, Angel,” agrees Steve, settling down and pulling Peter to his chest tightly. “Now that I caught you, I don’t really want to let you go, anyway.”

“Thanks,” says Peter.

In response, Steve ducks his head and kisses Peter on the shoulders.

“You do know how to make a man feel welcome,” he sighs contentedly.

Peter, his head tucked out of sight, smiles in amazed amusement.

_I guess I do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! We did it!
> 
> Okay, BECAUSE THIS IS SOMETHING NEW, let's talk about the next story!
> 
> I will be having a guest author come write a story in this AU. She worked really hard with me and Mindwiped to ensure continuity with our story, and I am excited for you all to give her story a shot. Please remember how hard it is to create something, how much of yourself you put in it, and support them! I promise you, I wouldn't give you something I didn't enjoy myself.
> 
> Then, we're each going to keep creating in this AU- the guest author in their own version (because I begged, I love their ideas, I just don't want to compromise my own to see them realized!), and me right here in our happy little slightly dark, sex-filled home. I believe whole-heartedly that creativity does not have to be stifled and that shared storytelling *builds a stronger community*, so feel free to follow both of us and please remember that this isn't a competition.
> 
> I'm excited! I've got my cheer-reading fan pompoms ready to go! The next time we meet, I'll be in the comment section with y'all, screaming!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7iympOhiU1o
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress but I have to follow my muses, so be aware this isn't an promise to WRITE those scenes for you. I just am open to hear about your ideas.
> 
> As a word of warning, I've got a guest author coming in for the next story in this series, after the third chapter of this one posts. The story they wanted to write worked so well with mine that I'm excited to have it embedded in mine, and they're such a good author I want them to just take the characters and do a little spin off so I can read how THEY would make this world go, if they were given free reign. More about that as we get closer to the next story, but first, couple more chapters of smut to give you. :)


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